


5. März

by playfulartistry



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Abuse is not okay, America Fuck Yeah, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Best Friends Ruining Your First Date, Champion Stalker of the Year, Consent, Countries who pretend to be people, Cute things, Diabetus - Freeform, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Excessive Violence, F/M, Familial Abuse, First Date, French, Fuck Or Die, Gay, Gayness, German, God Is A Black Woman, Good old Communism, Guns, Hell no, Imma get really political up in this bitch, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Is this really what we’re doing? A Song Fic?, Italian, Kissing, Learning Consent, Mental Illness, Minor Violence, My First Work in This Fandom, OH MY GODS THEYRE KISSING, OH NO NOT LANGUAGES, Obsessive Boyfriends, Past forced medical procedure, Political, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recent events - Freeform, Religions who pretend to be people, Russian, SO MANY CUTE THINGS, SO MANY GAY, Self loathing related to mental illness, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Spanish, Stalking, Stigma related to mental illness, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The sacred twelve times of day, Too many Straight people, Violence, Why is Gilbird not the main character?, abuse survivor, cloud nine - Freeform, minor lobotomy, no, nope - Freeform, really you will have diabetes stage five cancer by the end of this fic, straightness, the author is crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playfulartistry/pseuds/playfulartistry
Summary: Germany doesn't understand Catholics, Prussia is ready to tear his damn hair out over the reappearance of his old friend, and Germania is hiding something.Sounds like a functional family, right?Italy still pines over Holy Rome, Romano is a lazy asshole, and their big sister, Pope, is a raging bitch. And she's dating Russia, who has some feelings of his own about his good and bad days.Anyway, have this semi-serious crack fic on how old friends got back together, and how secrets are revealed, allowing one who is lost to be found again.Ongoing Series.





	5. März

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I have been working on this project for the last 10 years, and I am so happy to say that it is done! Im putting it in as plain text and I will format it later!
> 
> Please tell me what you think!

Siehst du mich   
Hörst du mich   
Was hab ich dir getan   
Warum zerstörst du mich   
Fühlst du mich   
Spürst du mich   
Wenn du mich nicht mehr liebst   
warum berührst du mich   
Brauchst du mich   
Sag glaubst du nicht   
Dass es besser ist   
du lebst dein Leben ohne mich   
Erkennst du mich   
Verstehst du nicht   
Warum bist du überhaupt noch hier   
Was willst du noch von mir 

Augen auf   
Wer sieht versteht   
wie gnadenlos die Zeit vergeht   
wie sich der Zeiger dreht   
unentwegt   
Er steht nie still 

Du weißt nicht was du willst   
Du weißt nicht wo du stehst   
weißt nicht woher du kommst   
wohin du gehst   
Du weißt nicht was dich treibt   
was am Ende für dich bleibt   
Warum bist du so blass   
so kalt so herzlos   
Du weißt nicht was du tust   
weißt nicht woran du glaubst   
Sag mir wozu und ob   
du mich noch brauchst   
Wenn's einfach nicht mehr passt   
Wenn du mich wirklich nur noch hasst   
Warum bist du noch hier   
Wofür  
Was willst du noch von mir   
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch von mir 

Siehst du mich   
Erkennst du mich   
Ganz tief in meinem Herz ist noch ein Platz für dich   
Ich suche dich   
Ich sehne mich   
nach dem was ich geliebt hab   
doch ich find' es nicht 

Augen auf   
Wer sieht versteht   
wie gnadenlos die Zeit vergeht   
wie sich der Zeiger dreht   
unentwegt   
Er steht nie still 

Viel zu lange   
Viel zu spät   
Sturm geerntet   
Wind gesät   
die Zeit vergeht   
unentwegt   
Sie steht nie still

Du weißt nicht was du willst   
Du weißt nicht wo du stehst   
weißt nicht woher du kommst   
wohin du gehst   
Du weißt nicht was dich treibt   
was am Ende für dich bleibt   
Warum bist du so blass   
so kalt so herzlos   
Du weißt nicht was du tust   
weißt nicht woran du glaubst   
Sag mir wozu und ob   
du mich noch brauchst   
Wenn's einfach nicht mehr passt   
Wenn du mich wirklich nur noch hasst   
Warum bist du noch hier   
Wofür  
Was willst du noch von mir   
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du wirklich noch von mir   
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch von mir  
Sag Mir  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch von mir  
Sag Mir  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du noch  
Was willst du wirklich noch von mir

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Germany sighed.

He was on his way to Russia’s house the goddamned seventh circle of hell and damn was it cold. The wind bit at his skin, the snow piled on his shoulders, and he swore there were icicles in his nose. 

Damnit.

That morning he had gotten a rather strange call from Lithuania, who, at that time, was living in Russia’s big house with several other countries, asking him to come retrieve a young woman who was passed out on the Russian’s couch, in a drunken stupor, no less. He said he had asked Italy if he would, but the cowardly country was, of course, too scared to go. And, before the conversation went on too much further, the phone had been taken.

“Hullo,” came the thick Russian accent, slurred with a mixture of alcohol and native tongue, through the receiver. The following explanation of why Italy’s big sister was passed out on his couch is rather unprintable, partly because Germany could barely catch most of the facts through the slurred renditions, but also is blamed by the lack of interest in the recording of such drunken nonsense.

Wait...Italy had a big sister!? Since when?

So on the plane he got.

He shook his head as he flipped a page in his book. “I will never understand Catholics...” 

 

__________________________________________________________________________

He was met by the devil himself Russia and led inside. In the short trip from the door to the living room, the dramatic temperature change could be described as jumping from the cold depths of hell the Siberian north to the sunny, warm shores of Sicily. A fire placed roared its lion-like protest to the snow outside, warming the room like an industrious toaster.

On the couch was a young woman half covered by a thick blanket, one hand dropped to the floor, loosely grasping the neck of a bottle of a rather expensive Spanish wine. The woman herself was pretty enough, definitely Italian. She took a strong resemblance to Italy’s big brother, Romano. Again, she was pretty, even out stone cold and snoring faintly.

Germany sighed and picked her up, met with the rather, well, pleasant is too incorrect and unpleasant is quite the beginning of it. Anyhow, it was quite a shock to find she was clothed in a scanty belly top, low cut with the advantage of her cleavage, and a mini skirt riding up over her generous hips, revealing black lace panties that didn’t seem to cover up quite as well as they were supposed to.

With a rather, -ahem-, revealingly clad young Italian woman in his arms, Germany managed to thank Russia with an attempt at a straight face and leave before he was tempted to do anything past righting her skirt.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Austria, who was staying over at Germany’s house, was very much surprised to find a half awake young woman with long dark curls in the kitchen, cursing at the coffee maker.

By the sound of it, she was very impatient and it was not heating fast enough for her.

He, very accurately so, guessed she had been drinking the previous night because her skirt was bunched up over her hips, something she hadn’t noticed yet. A obnoxious cowlic that sprang from her bangs was bent funny, another indication.

Well, he had to admit, that lacy thong did wonders for her ass.

Must be one of Gilbert’s girlfriends... he thought as he was joined by his ex wife, Hungary. The red eyed German occasionally brought home one girl or another. Hungary snatched the nearest skillet and shook it threateningly at the woman. “Who the hell are you and why are you so improperly dressed!?”

The woman spun around, startled, her dark eyes flashing angrily. “What the hell!? The last thing I remember is bein’ in Russia’s house! Why don’t you tell me where the fuck I am!”

Whatever they expected her to be like, this was not it.

Not getting an answer, the woman pulled down her skirt moodily and turned back to the coffee maker. After another few minutes of puttering along, the electronic dinged.

Austria and Hungary sighed when the woman glared at them like it was their fault. Hungary went about making breakfast, careful not to intrude on the unspoken taboo that was the corner the Italian was reclused to, coffee mug hostage in her tiny hands, clung to for dear life.

She began to look almost human as she nursed her hangover with the caffeine, albeit, still annoyed. But the expression looked so at home on her features that it looked as if she spent a lot of her time in that state.

“Big sister!!” She was hailed by the one and only thank god Italy. She grumbled at him. It was too early for this. And she told him as much, just not as kindly put.

“Feliciano, you are interrupting one of the most sacred twelve times of the day. Coffee time.”

He beamed and hugged her anyway, almost spilling the coffee that she was nearly too slow to move. “Why you at Russia’s house, Pope? He’s really scary!”

Dark bangs were blown out of equally as dark eyes, just a few shades darker than her brother’s. It was actually more like the difference between milk chocolate and dark, but in ocular form. 

“Why you at stupid German’s house, hah?” she replied scornfully, drawing herself up to full height, an impressive three inches shorter than her brother. But you would have thought she towered over him like Germany, he was so scared. “You’re too good to be in dump like the stupid Protestant’s house!”

She grabbed his ear and hauled him out, surprisingly strong for her small stature. 

“You work more at home than you do here, and you don’t even get ta eat properly! Nasty German slop isn’t good for you--” Her voice carried through the slam of the front door until she slammed into Italy’s car, her voice blessedly muted.

Austria felt that poor Italy was still getting yelled at. About that time a sleepy Prussia walked in, rubbing his eyes.

“I heard yelling. What’d I miss?"

____________________________________________________________________________

Several days later had Italy answering the door to an asian man with the outward emotional expression of a wet dishrag.

“Japan!”

“Mr Germany was concer-”

“Come in, Japan! We’re about to have lunch!”

Poor Japan had no choice to accept as he was dragged inside by the excitable airhead. Towed through an unusually decorated home with a definite feminine touch out onto a veranda was Japan’s abrupt scene change and curtain call.

Sitting in one of three chairs was Italy’s brother Romano, and in a second was a resembling-strongly-to-Romano young woman. If the brother had put on a white dress and had longer hair, they would be almost indistinguishable.

Who the hell was she?

The woman looked at the youngest brother. “I thought you were goin’ ta bring out lunch, Italy. I woulda very well rather not to eat Japan.”

“Y-yes, Pope!” he squeaked, dashing back into the house. Japan blinked.

Pope (an odd name for a woman, he supposed) gestured to the third seat, intending their guest to sit. Japan complied with a small bow. He looked around. The veranda was bursting with color with hundreds of vibrantly colored flowers. “The frowers here are very bright.” he complimented politely. Pope looked admirably at the collection. “Some of them are pretty all year ‘round.” she looked at her other brother. “Romano, why don’t you fetch us a bottle of wine.”

“Hah?” he replied lazily.

“GO AND GET IT, YA LAZY IDIOT!” Pope shouted and the young man scrambled up and disappeared into the house.

Japan blinked again. He was amazed . Germany and Spain only dreamed of the power this tiny woman was enacting over the Italian brothers.

However, he could sense anger and bitterness under her pretty face, like a rotten pretzel dipped in chocolate... Okay, so using pocky as an example was not quite so...understandable...  
Could pretzels even rot?

Maybe bad sushi was a better comparison.

Drawn out of his thoughts, Japan realized the food was set and three pairs of brown eyes were set on him. He realized that they had joined hands and were waiting for him.

What an odd Western thing…

Giving in to the expectant gazes, Japan found himself holding Italy's hand on one side and Romano's on the other.

Awkward.

The three closed their eyes, Japan watching curiously. None of them said a word.

"A~men!" Italy broke the silence and dug in, releasing his hand.

Japan rolled his eyes.

Western cultures will always take some getting use to…

____________________________________________________________________________  
Germany was perplexed by Japan's report of his meal with the Italian brothers and sister.

It wasn't unlike Italy to be a spineless waste of space, but he couldn't even get this kind of unfailing obedience with bribes or force! And he was six feet tall!

How could someone so small bully Italy into doing everything? She wasn't even a country!

Maybe he should do some research on this woman...How many small Italian women could there possibly be?

____________________________________________________________________________

 

So...maybe there were a lot of small Italian women.

Despite his chagrin, Germany was on his way to ask his brother for help. Prussia knew just about everyone, and he was a world champion stalker.

In hand he had a picture of the woman, Pope, Japan had said she was, but that must have been a nickname. Japan had drawn it from memory. This lady must have bull or lion's blood in her. NO Italian could have managed the look of power she held in her face.

It was a slightly unwelcome turn on.

And he barely even LIKED women.

Predictably, his brother was napping, sprawled out on the neatly clipped back lawn, snoring, that strange little bird fluffed up on his forehead. It grunted at him.

Odd little bird.

Germany jabbed the toe of his boot into the man's ribs, startling him. "Oi! Wake up!"

Prussia, pale silvery blonde with crimson eyes now dazed with sleep, sat up and stretched, yawning. "Weeesst! I was sleeping!"

"I noticed." Germany grunted, not feeling particularly happy that his brother was wasting his time sleeping. "Get up, I need your help."

The small, slender man pushed himself up, then stood. He wasn't heavily muscular like his little brother, but lean and wiry. And he was short, only coming to German's nose. Not that it was ever brought up. The former country was sensitive about it.

That little yellow chick appeared on top of his head, disgruntled at having been upset, but Prussia didn't notice. It seemed like he didn’t even know it existed.

"What does little bruder need of se magnificently awesome me?"

Germany sighed. He was also twice as vain as a cat and ten times louder about it than America. He gave Prussia the picture. "Who se hell is this?"

Prussia snorted derisively. "That Soviet bastard's fuck toy. She's a bitchy Catholic runt with se ability to out drink a lightweight like you."

Germany raised a brow.

The red eyes rolled. "She's Rome's niece, I think. She was born somewhere in se middle east before she came here." He gave the picture back, shoving his hands in his pocket. "She, for a short time, vas se Papal States. Now she is Catholicism."

Germany frowned and looked at the picture. "And how do you know all this?" He asked, flicking a questioning glance at his brother.

"Großvater Germania introduced us." Prussia shrugged "Before he vent away, anyway."

Germany frowned. His grandfather had been long gone when he was born. Whenever he had asked Prussia about it, he'd tell him he was quiet, like him, and strong. And that he had disappeared around the time the Holy Roman Empire went away. He shook his head, not to be distracted. This woman puzzled him and he didn’t know why he had to learn about her…but there was something about her...

Prussia yawned. "She sure looks like your type. I think if you want to deal with that communist bastard, you could go ahead and bang her."

Germany colored and took a swipe at Prussia, who ducked. "Shut up!"

He smirked. "Just observing, ja?"

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Italy squeaked and ducked just as a plate shattered on the wall behind where his head had been a moment ago.

It was deserved, he supposed, but it didn't stop him from babbling apologies to his raging sister and avoided projectiles that seemed to have deadly aim.

He had snuck off, yet again, without finishing his chores for a siesta.

Now he was dodging soapy dishes hurled by a terrifyingly pissed off Pope. He wondered if he had some sort of homing beacon on him.

Romano was wondering if his sister got her ability to terrify from hanging out with both France and Russia.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

"Veh, Russia, why don't you come ta my house this time? It's hellish up there." Pope said into the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, hands preoccupied rummaging through her closet.

"Sorry, Pope." Russia replied cheerfully. "Germany has invited me to his house today."

Brown eyes rolled as she shoved a dress back into the closet moodily. "Everything's about that damn German." Grumbling, she rejected another outfit. "Forget I asked." She hung up, throwing a pink, Spanish siesta type dress back in the closet. She left her room, tossing her phone on her dresser as she left.

Flopping on the couch, she looked down at herself. She was wearing an old tank top and flannel pajama bottoms that hung loosely on her hips. She nodded, satisfied. This was something she could wear spending her day around the house.

In the kitchen, Italy was trying to cajole Romano to going somewhere with him, but the elder brother was adamant that he would not go.

"Why not!?" Italy whined.

"Because I don't want to, stupid!"

"Come on! It'll be fuun~"

Pope sighed looking over the back of the couch. "Italia, what the hell are you goin' on about?"

Both jumped.

"A-ah! Pope! I-I didn’t think you'd be awake!" Italy threw his arms wide, beaming. "Germany invited us ta drink tonight!"

Pope raised a brow and considered it. Then she waved a hand. "You should go. Both of you."

Romano's mouth fell open as Italy hugged their sister tight. "You've got to be kidding!"

Pope's eyes glittered. "I was invited ta drink. Since when have I passed up drinks?"

Romano blinked. She had a point.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

"Doitsuuu~!"

Germany turned to see not only Italy, but his siblings as well. "I didn't expect you to come, Feliciano."

The smaller man threw his arms wide, laughing jovially. "Of course I was coming!"

Behind him, neither of his siblings looked too happy to be there. Romano was scowling at Germany, casually dressed. Pope was glaring to his left, where Russia sat, his conversation interrupted at their arrival. She was wearing a pink sundress with strappy white heels. She still, even in heels, was shorter than her brothers. Though she was an inch taller than Japan, the smallest country next to Sealand, who wasn’t even a country at all. Just a sea platform with a couple of people and a goat.

Russia waved a lazy hand in greeting and halfway through his "Hello,” Pope deliberately ignored him and walked past, going to sit with Japan.

The tall man blinked. What had just happened?

____________________________________________________________________________

 

An empty stomach and a “couple” of beers later had Pope in a much better mood that earlier. She was halfway through her eighth beer, humming absently to herself, when that familiar head of pale hair spawned in her vision, the rest sitting in a chair at her lonely table.

"I’va got a soul, but I’m not a sol- oh. It’s you." Pope muttered, her good mood evaporating. "What do you want?"

Russia smiled, his lips curved mockingly. "I was just wondering what you were doing."

Pope snorted. "I’m getting drunk. Dumbass, what did you think I was doin’? The dishes?"

He chuckled, eyes glittering. "Why don't I take you home before you cause a riot, da?"

"I’m not drunk enough"

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him rather than past him. "What would everyone think If I stole you away?"

Pope rolled her eyes, but held up a finger as she finished the rest of her drink. When she set the bottle down, she grinned.

"Now I’m drunk enough that I don't give a goddamn." She grabbed his hand and dragged him off. "But I don't think I’ll go home just yet."

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Germany sighed.

He was getting nowhere. Thinking of asking Russia about the Italian woman that puzzled him so, he had invited him over. So, of course, Italy brings that damn woman.

"Does she always drink like this?"

"Yes." A shrug from scarfed shoulders.

The woman in question was sitting on the bar with a drunk Italy, singing, and the warbles of French mixing with German was very odd.

"Does she always sing in german?"

"If she's drunk enough"

Out of the blue, the drunk woman grabbed a bar stool and smashed it over a passing just-as-drunk Prussia's head.

"BITCH!"

"I’ve never seen her do that!" Was Russia's childishly pleased response.

Germany put his face in his hands.

Romano grabbed his sister, who was screeching profanities at the floored Prussian, before she could attack anyone else and start a fight.

"I’LL-A SHOOT YA, YA BITCH!"

"Pope reminds me of Switzerland!" Italy chimed as Romano dragged them out.

"Shut up, idiot!"

Everyone sniggered and Germany hid his face in his beer as his brother staggered up, trashed.  
"Mein Gott, what se hell just hit me?"

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pope loved his good days.

Today they were in Switzerland, on a date after one of Russia’s meeting’s. They were settled in the mountains, in the sun. The grass was warm, and flushed with flowers of all breeds, a riot of color.

Pope was digging through the picnic basket they had brought, pulling out food, while Russia just sprawled out on the grass, enjoying the sun. Pope smiled at him softly and poked him in the side. He giggled like a little kid.

“Are you gonna eat? Or are you gonna see if you can produce oxygen via photosynthesis?” She joked.

Russia cracked an eye at her. “I have to move, da?”

“Yes?”

The eye closed. “Nope.”

That started a laugh from Pope. “Are ya just gonna sleep there, lazy boy?” she poked his cheek. “So laaaaaaazy!”

“I deserve it, da?”

“Maybe.”

He held up and arm. “Lay down with me?”

Pope eyed him. But before she could reply, he grabbed her arm and tugged her down. She sighed and gave in, cuddling to his side.

“You are such a child, Ivan.”

“You’re just old, da?”

“Rude.”

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Russia dropped her off at her door, since she had work in the morning. When she stood on tiptoe for a kiss, she was still too short, so he leaned down to meet her lips in a sweet kiss.

“Good night, Солнышко.” He said softly, smiling.

“Good night, carissimo.” Pope giggled.

Russia waited for her to go inside before leaving.

Pope smiled to herself. She wished that every day could be like this.

Good days, she thought, are much preferable to the dark ones.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Pope returned from a drunken night out with France and Spain, fumbling with her house keys blindly in the dark. She tumbled inside.

Nose bloody from smashing against something hard, Pope blinked sluggishly and looked up.  
Her foyer was carpeted…

Up her gaze went. Boots, brown pants, tan coat, white scarf, violet eyes.

Uh oh.

"Where have you been?"

It was Russia, arms folded over his faucet pipe, violet eyes icy.

"Out..." Pope mumbled wearily. "Why you here?"

She scrambled with a sharp cry of pain when he grabbed her hair and slammed her against the wall like a broken doll again and again. Then she was woozily aware of being dragged. Her head hit something hard, leaving her to crumple to the ground as he let go. His gloved hand around her throat, pulled her up, feet kicking as small hands tearing at his gloved one, fighting to breathe. Pope's eyes were huge, her lips flapping like that of an oxygen starved fish.

"WHERE WERE YOU!?" he roared, shaking her like a terrier would a rat.

Pope choked, yanking at his wrist. "--van..."

He dragged her yet again out of the room.

The next thing she was thrown into must have been the mirror in the bathroom as shattered glass cut into her back as she slumped down.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, she felt his hot breath in her ear as his nails dragged at the slices on her back, opening them up wider.

"You...you're nothing without me, you little whore! You don't exist without me!" He laughed, his breathing ragged with excitement. "A little whore! The Catholic Church is a drunk little whore! But you're MY little fuck toy, oh yes you are! Because you are nothing without me!"

Pope's vision was spinning, her body cold, hot blood stinging her back. "Nothing..." She whispered as blackness crept over her. "...without...you..."

CRACK!

The back of her head was slammed into the mirror, her scalp screaming as her hair was yanked roughly. "You're not going to sleep tonight, bitch. You're mine, all mine. If you're good and you bleed enough for me, I'll let you sleep." He sneered as he picked her up and set on another short dragging trip, her back riding the carpet, making Pope shriek. She was tossed on something soft, but stinging as it scraped her slashed up back. "No matter how long it takes."

Pope whimpered.

This would be a long night…

"Of course...Ivan...."

________________________________________________________________________________

 

Pope woke to light stinging her eyes. Her body was on fire.

Somehow she managed to drag herself out of bed, peeling herself from the sheets as crusted blood ripped open dried wounds and set the blood flowing again, and staggered into the bathroom.

Be damned if she would crawl.

She curled up in the bottom of a cool shower and she watched with dull eyes as the water turned a vivid pink, swirling down the drain.

After a long time she forced herself to move and gingerly wash away all the rest of the blood. Just another battle lost, just another war wound, treat it like a battle scar, you’ve had plenty of those.

She didn't bother with her hair, not feeling up to it. Turning off the water, she crawled up and hung over the sink, feebly rinsing her mouth from the tap. She turned carefully to look at her back in the one unbroken mirror left.

It was crisscrossed in angry red cuts. She looked up at her face, her head throbbing from being bashed around last night.

Her hair straggled around her ashen face like damp seaweed, eyes shadowed and puffy.  
She looked like she felt.

Like utter shit.

It had been two months since her and Russia's last tryst, back in that German bar. She hadn't seen him since and he always said he was busy when she called. Why he had to show up now after a drinking party with her friends, she didn’t know.

And for him to be in one of his dark moods…

She stripped her bed, the sheets stiff and crusted with blood. Throwing the bedding into the wash, she grabbed new sheets and threw them on the bed, not caring about making it. Dressing in a soft, loose shirt and shorts, she looked around her room. Then she sighed and went to scrub the blood off the carpet and walls and order another mirror before sweeping up broken shards.

Cleaning up the evidence of last night, she went and crawled in Romano's bed. Her brothers had each been gone for awhile as well, Romano going to Spain's house and Italy going to Germany's.

It was the closest thing to a hug that she would get right now.

Not that she wanted a hug, but if she did, which, of course, she didn't…

She hugged her brother's pillow to her chest and fell into an uneasy doze.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Corrupted bitch!"

Pope screamed and backed up into something solid. Hands like vicegrips clawed her arms, holding her in place. A knife glinted cruelly in the raised hand above her. She looked into the crowd around them, screaming for help. But they just watched with hate in their eyes.

Three blonde boys; one with wavy shoulder length locks, one with unfortunately thick eyebrows, the last one's eyes so piercingly blue, turned their heads away.

Another desperate plea fell from Pope's lips, overshadowed by hysterical laughter.

The next to turn away was a girl with vibrant ginger hair, followed by two more, a boy and a girl. The girl sported an orange flower above her ear and the boy turned ashamed blue-violet eyes down, his mouth twisted with disgust.

That left two boys and a pair of infants. The tots cowered together, whimpering and the elder brunette hid behind the other boy.

As silver flashed down, blood staining her vision, Pope felt a small, calloused hand slip into hers.

She put her hand up, met by thorny vines. The red was a thousand roses. She tore at them until she saw white and scrambled through. She was lying on the ground, soft grass tickling her nose. She sneezed and tried to sit up, but agony muted by time left her stiff.

Looking up, she found a little boy crouched over her, wearing white. A black, equal sided cross was sewn into his front. His crimson eyes watched her concernedly, his silver blonde hair ruffled by the wind.

"Wha..?" Pope murmured, a detached part of her brain telling her that she was dreaming up her own memories.

The boy cocked his head. "Who're you? You're just layin’ on the grass there..."

Pope sat up, a sharp pain lancing through her. "Im Catholicism." She looked herself over. She was in a pale white dress trimmed with gold, a crimson cross on her chest. Looking at him, he looked a bit battered, but in high spirits. "Then who're you?"

The boy puffed out his thin chest proudly. "Im se Order of Saint Maria! Imma get big and strong and rule se world one day!"

Pope chuckled. "Justa start by growing up first. My big brother got too big and he got himself killed."

The boy's eyes rounded out, wide like tea saucers. "Really!?"

The woman nodded and laughed. "Of course. Your grandfather was the one who stuck the fatal blow. He wasn't someone who talked much, but we got along."

The boy looked down. "Großvater Germania doesn't come around much anymore..."

Pope sighed. "Life must carry on. Someday, we both will disappear."

"No!" The boy jumped to his feet, fire in his blood colored eyes. "I won’t ever disappear! I won’t let you go neither!"

The woman smiled. "Okay."

He then knelt by her side. "Promise me you won’t ever disappear! Promise!"

Pope smiled and curled her pinky over the one offered. "I promise, I'll never disappear."

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Italy bounced into his house like he always did. He had come back to see his sister with, as was usual, a gift.

He had found that she was easily appeased with a gift, especially if it was alcoholic in nature. 

This time it was a bottle of vintage Vietnamese sweet wine.

"Pope~! Imma home~!" He stopped short, blinking.

The house looked...different…

Pictures had been turned down on their faces, the dishwasher was running, as well as the washer and dryer.

He had been gone only a few days. What the crap had happened!? Was there a cleaning lady here? Pope never tolerated cleaning ladies, but what else could it be?

There were several baskets of neatly folded clothes and linens stacked by the couch.

What was going on? She never did anything that she could make her brothers do.

"Sorella?" He called tentatively as he peeked in her room. A neatly made bed and a tidy floor, but no big sister. He checked the study, the bathroom, his room, the backyard, all of them showing signs of tidying work. Quivering, he checked the last room: Romano's bedroom. His brother had scared him from ever going in there by hanging him by his ankles out the window.  
He was startled to find Pope asleep. The reading glasses perched on her nose, reminding him just how old she was, were askew, a small book half falling out of her lax hands. She twitched in her sleep.

Italy looked around the room. She had cleaned in here too. So why wasn't she in her own room?  
He shook her, intending to ask her. She stirred, mumbling something in french. He shook her harder. "Pope, It’s time to wake up!"

Her eyes flickered open and he jumped back, expecting a punch.

She just sighed. "Oh. You're-a home, Feliciano."

He nodded, holding out the bottle, a pretty ribbon looped over it's neck. "I brought you something, Pope!" He managed a happy smile, trying to provoke one in return.

She looked at it for a moment before shaking her head. "No thank you."

Now it was a good time to freak out. And he did so, running out.

Pope just shrugged and went to check on the wash.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

"BIG BROTHER FRAAAAAAAAANCIS!!"

Britain blinked as France was tackled by a panicked Italy.

"FRAAANCIS! POPE'S BROKEN!"

The frenchman chuckled and patted Italy's head. "What now, little Feliciano? I doubt that she iz really broken!"

"Shesa cleaning tha house and she didn't want tha wine that I brought!" Italy wailed.

France looked at Britain. "Do you remember when we thought ze world waz going to end in ze year one thouzand?"

"Yes, but what the bloody bollocks does it have to do with--"

"It waz juzt a little late."

"FIX IT FROG FACE!" Britain screeched.

"It cannot be zat 'ard." He replied with a suave smile. "I will fix 'er tonight."

____________________________________________________________________________  
France let himself into the Italian trio's home as he usually did. Pope was perched on the back of the couch, folding laundry as she hummed along with the radio.

He stopped, stunned for a moment. Then he leaned against the wall, shaking his head with a smile. "Are you feeling mildly productive, little roze?"

Pope looked up at him, eyes quiet. "How’d you get here?"

"I like to think I came by God's 'and."

Pope rolled her brown eyes and tossed the folded shirt onto the pile that had accumulated. "Typical of you, France."

"Why zo cold, little roze? Waz your brother right when ‘e zaid you were broken?"

Pope twitched as she picked up another shirt. She folded it a moment later. "What do you want?"

"I 'avent zeen you in dayz, mi cherrie." He murmured, tipping her chin up. "I waz beginning to worry that Ivan 'ad 'urt you."

Pope shook her head and looked away. "I don’t want ta remember all that’s happened, is all." She murmured. Her fingers tightened into fists in the shirt. "I just wanna disappear..."

France shook his head and tossed an arm around her, noting her wince. "Little roze, talk to me." He steered her out, grabbing a pair of wine glasses along the way. "Juzt tell big brother France all your troublez, little roze. I'll make everything all better."

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Did Italians ever lock their doors? Russia wondered as the front door swung open easily, letting him in. He'd decided to visit Pope since he had some free time.

Steam wafted towards him, rolling over the pristine white carpet, soft with the perfume of sweet skin damp with soap. He drifted, smiling a little. The bathroom door was half open, soft light filtering through the fog.

Thinking to surprise her, he pushed the door open.

He froze.

There was a giggle and splashing.

He blinked slowly, trying to figure out what he was seeing.

Pope was half in the shower, half out of it, with a feather boa around her neck. She had a pair of New Years party glasses from 1999-2000 on her face, and what looked like spaghetti sauce dumped down the front of her white man’s button down, worn over short shorts.

Caught pushing her into the shower, was a shirtless France, sauce all down his jeans’ front, and a matching feather boa around his arms. In one hand he held both their wine glasses. On his head, he wore reindeer antlers with little tinkling bells.

He crossed his arms. “What are you doing?”

France looked up at him, blinking stupidly, obviously drunk. “Weeeeeee’re diiiiiiiirty.”

Pope giggled. “Paaaaaasta!” she breathed, wobbling dangerously.

Russia sighed.

He was leaving before he killed one or both of them.

Let them figure it out themselves that wearing clothes in the shower wasn’t pleasant.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was World night, where literally everyone got together for a drink.

Except North Korea, but that was his loss.

And the reigning topic tonight was the Supreme Court’s ruling on gay marriage in the United States.

America was celebrating. He had been pushing for it. Everyone was really happy for him.

“I mean, he’s finally out of the Stone Age, right?” Britain joked.

“Tumbler will be all over thiz.” France chuckled into his drink.

America grinned. “It had to come some time, right?”

“Ah hope you won’t offend someone with yer parade, Alfred.” a little redheaded woman laughed, sitting on the other side of Britain, stuck between him and Germany, her lively green eyes dancing. “Least of all, a religious folk.”

“Last I checked, Judaism doesn’t care as long as you’re not one of them, Aislin.” Britain said. “Isis will be offended by everything and anything, but don’t discredit your average Muslim. They’re pretty dapper.”

“And lazt I ‘eard Little Roze was part of the rainbow flag parade.” France chipped in.

Germany blinked. “Pope? Isn’t she with Braginski?”

“I’ve seen ‘er make out with beautiful women.”

“When drunk, you perverted frog.”

“HEY POPE!” America yelled, waving his arms.

At another table, Pope was sitting on the table, legs crisscrossed, chugging a beer. She held up a finger until she finished it.

“WHAT!?”

“C’MERE!”

“Oh, my God, Alfred...” Britain put his face in his hands.

Pope wobbled over. “Ya, ya, whatcha waaaaant?”

America grinned. “Is it true that you like girls and guys?”

Pope waved a hand and shook her head. “Nah. I’m straight. But that don’t mean that I can’t think women are aesthetically pleasing. Nor does it mean that I don’t believe that others shouldn’t have the right to marry or whatever they wanna do. I mean, my boss said it just fine. Hell, Chris Evans said it better! Anyone who says gays can’t marry or trans people can’t get surgery, you point ‘em to that flagpole out there and I’ll fight ‘em. I’ll fight a phobic bitch.”

Aislin whistled through her teeth. “You go girl.”

“Be quiet, you stupid Protestant.” Pope grinned.

“Biiiiiiiiig Brooooooother!”

“Hush, you Irish tit, I’m not getting into a fight with a religion. It’s not worth it.”

____________________________________________________________________________

1814

It was the harshest winter in a long time. Snow piled up, the wind howled, and the skies were dark. The sun was a myth, it seemed, and life sucked. Nestled in the hills of dirt and snow alike, sheltered on one side by a forest, was a quaint little home. From the chimney curled smoke, instantly whipped away by the wind, and the warm glow behind the curtained window was inviting.

Inside, it was cozy, the ancient seeming fireplace was bellowing with flames, licking up blackening wood. Three people occupied the house. Two adults, a man and a woman, and a young child. They could be a happy family, you know, if they were a family and not family.

“Gilbert?”

“Yeeeees, Elisabeth?”

“If there are too many Protestants in the country, what will happen to me? Will I have to leave? Will I disappear?”

The man sobered, his red eyes flashing. “You’ll never disappear. Not as long as I am around to remember you.”

“And what if you disappear?”

“If you remember me, I won’t ever disappear. If you forget me, I will.”

“I’ll never forget you.” the woman replied vehemently. “Not ever. We promised, never to disappear.”

“So we won’t. Simple.”

Elisabeth watched the boy child read his book. He was blonde and blue eyed, with little resemblance to his older brother. He didn’t remember anything right now, but maybe one day…

Elisabeth shook her head. Francis took care of that, she thought nastily. He’ll never remember who and what he was.

“But what if I have to leave?”

“You worry too much.”

“Gilbert…”

Gilbert knelt in front of her, where she sat, and took her hands. “I will never make you leave, even if there are no more Catholics in Preußen. Not ever.”

She smiled. “I will never leave you. You are my best friend, Gilbert.”

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Prussia was doing what he did best (or, one of his bests, he had a lot): stalking.

Right now he was stalking Pope.

Why?

Because he woke up this morning, with the remnants of that dream clinging to his consciousness, reminding him of happier times.

He remembered his best friend. And he just wanted to see her without having to dodge bar stools and death threats.

So, he was at her house, in her bushes, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

There was a lot of yelling.

An argument? Or was she hassling her brothers again?

No….that timbre was too deep...a man’s voice.

He heard a crash and a shrill scream.

It sounded terrified.

There was trouble.

Welp. He couldn’t just squat here in the roses.

He untangled himself, getting none too few scratches on the way, and ran. Leaping the porch railing, he sped towards the front door, kicking it in, the lock breaking with a sharp snap. Dashing in, he followed the screaming. Living room...right. Didn’t all screaming matches start there? Well, the kitchen, maybe.

And the living room it was. It was a mess, the couch overturned, pillows everywhere. The curtains were torn down, a vase smashed against the wall. A book shelf had had something heavy thrown at it.

In the middle of it, Russia had Pope by the arm in one hand, the other tight around her throat, pulling to the point where her arm was almost out of it’s socket. He snarled at her, and squeezed his gloved hand on her arm, and it snapped.

Pope let out a thin squeal, barely a whisper of sound.

“OI!” Prussia snarled. “Communist bastard! Pick on someone your own size!”

Russia turned to glare at him. He dropped Pope, who collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath.

Yay.

And stalked towards him.

Fuck.

Prussia stood his ground, squaring his shoulders. Pope may not like him, and he may not like how she’s become, but he’d fight for her still. He wouldn’t run away, no matter how much he feared hated this Russian bastard.

Russia grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket and hauled him up off the ground. “This isn’t any of your business, da? Get out while you can, you pathetic excuse of a country.”

Prussia looked down at where the bigger man gripped his jacket, where Pope lay on the floor, then back up at Russia.

He spit in the man’s face.

He may have deserved the punch in the face that sent him across the room and into the door jam. But he didn’t think he deserved the vicious kick in the ribs once he was down.

Definitely not the kick in the head.

But at least he wasn’t hitting Pope anymore.

Russia hauled him up by the back of his jacket, and that was his mistake. That was Prussia’s chance to get on his feet.

Using the fulcrum of hand and leather as his lever, he swung his body and swept Russia’s feet right from under him, sending him crashing to the ground, leaving Prussia to stagger to his feet.

Bad idea. He nearly ended up on the floor again. His head was killing him, and his ribs fucking hurt. Blood dripped into his eyes, and he tried to swipe it away.

He swore.

Typical.

At least the bastard didn’t have the fucking pipe.

Speaking of, Russia was getting to his feet, and he was fucking pissed.

Later, much later, Prussia would recall that he jumped Russia like a wildcat, but, in the end, Pope shooting the bastard with a mysteriously acquired handgun as the cops arrived won the fight.

Next thing he knew, he was in one ambulance with Pope, and he was pretty sure the darkness that followed didn’t quite let him miss her soft “Don’t you disappear.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Pope's place in Germany's house was none too impressive, to say the least. She rarely emerged from the room provided, and when she was seen she was withdrawn and silent, cradling her broken arm to her chest like it was a dead kitten.

When Germany mentioned it, Italy didn’t like the cat analogy used.

"She'll be fine." Prussia said absently, watching an absurdly strange show featuring a talking yellow dog and a boy whose name sounded like the anatomy of a fish. Was that a stretchy rainbow unicorn speaking Korean?

"Girls are overly sensitive to everything." he said offhandedly

"You overreact when someone takes your shampoo." Germany pointed out sternly 

"Shut up! Mein Gott, I do not. Anyway, that’s not se point!"

"Then what is?"

"Se damn point is that she will eventually get se hell over it!"

"And how do you know?" Germany asked his brother, confused. This was so out of character for him. Prussia wasn’t really the type to brood, but he'd been in a bad mood all week....

Austria hadn't complained about him since the fight with Russia, and it was worrying. Prussia usually found a way to needle the pianist, injuries or not. But Austria could walk in the room and deliberately cross in front of the tv, and while a remote would usually be thrown at him, Prussia just waited moodily for him to move, not a word in passing.

"Because. I knew her at one point, unlike you. We do not talk much anymore."

Germany stared hard at his brother, who shrugged and went back to watching his absurd cartoons. He shook his head. His brother was very strange…

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Pope smirked as she landed in the backyard, darkened by the shade of the night, and without an ounce of difficulty. Boyah. Italian: One. Stupid German's: Zip!

"Oi, what are you doing?"

Pope swore colorfully. Stupid Germans!

Straightening up, she found Prussia standing in the door of the shed he had retreated to. In his hand was an open book, the binding a dark blue hue. His silver hair seemed luminescent in the moonlight. The crack in his skull was healing well, but slowly, his ribs mostly set. Still, stubborn bruises refused to fade and he was a mess. He was gazing steadily at her with calm eyes, brooding.

"None of your business, German." The fiesty Italian woman spat defensively, body tense with the reality that indeed, she had been caught red handed in her escape.

Prussia rolled his eyes, as if she was being overdramatic. "Mein Gott, you don't have to tear my damn head off."

"What do you want?" Pope grumbled, crossing her arms awkwardly, the sling and cast getting in the way of something that normally would be a natural positioning.

"To know where sa hell you're off to this late. Especially since your ass is s'posed to be inside." he retorted, eyes flashing, teeth bared a little. He certainly was not going to let her off the hook so easily with this, after that last fight.

Pope turned resolutely and went for the fence gate. "I don't have to tell you, stupid Protestant."

“You don't know what you want, you don't know where you are. Don't know where you came from, where you're going.” Prussia said softly, voice liting as if speaking in prose. “You don't know what drives you, what's there for you at the end. Why are you so pale? So cold, so heartless.”

Pope froze. How dare he speak to her like that! And in song lyrics, that arrogant asshole!

“You don't know what you're doing. Don't know what you believe in.

Tell me if and why you still need me. If it's just not working anymore. If you really only hate me. Why are you still here? What for? What else do you want from me?”

It was many long moments before another sound was uttered.

“What is this, like, poetry night at the goth club?” she joked, trying to deflect.

"Do you see me? Do you recognize me?” Prussia sighed, the noise almost morose. “Deep inside my heart there's still a place for you. I seek you. I yearn for what I loved...but I can't find it”

"Eyes open, whoever sees, understands. How mercilessly time passes by, how the clock's hand turns, unfailingly, it never stands still.” Pope said quietly, hand on the gate, eyes fixed into the nothingness that was the night, conflicted between running back and never returning, only to disappear forever.

Even if it meant breaking her promise.

“Far to long, far too late. What was sown was reaped. Time passes unfailingly. It never stands still." Pope finished, just letting her words hang in the air, letting him interpret them as he would, wondering how he would see them as, and trying to figure out exactly what she meant by them. 

And then she was gone.

With unreadable eyes, Prussia snapped the book shut with one hand and trudged inside to bed, thoughts hidden behind a mask of weariness.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pope unlocked her door, pushing it open. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was home. She pushed into her room and froze.

Sitting on her window seat was none other than Russia, feet propped up. Arms folded over his chest, his face was turned down, eyes closed. Pope inched forward, tense. Was he awake?

She gently touched his cheek with shaking finger tips, and he stirred.

He was asleep!

Brushing his hair back, she smiled a little. He was so soft looking in his sleep.

She eeped when her hand was suddenly caught in a strong, gloved grip. Violet eyes were wide, trained on her. They didn’t seem to recognize her for a moment, but then they focused and a sweet smile greeted her as the grip on her hand loosened. "Elisabetta. You came home~."

Pope smiled. "Of course I did. It’s my home, isn't it?"

She closed her eyes as gloved fingers ran through her hair.

"I was almost thinking you weren't coming back..." He murmured.

Pope was pulled close in a hug and she squeaked, her healing arm pressed awkwardly. She wiggled it free and snuggled against his chest more comfortably, pretty much sitting on his lap.  
"I would always come back, Ivan." She murmured against him. "I don't have anywhere else to go..."

She felt nice and warm against him, and she eventually dozed off, curled up against Russia's broad chest.

These few, precious moments were worth all the pain and misery.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

"Elisabetta! If you don't come down, there will not be any food left!" Hungary called, knocking on the woman's door. There hadn't been a single peep out of her since yesterday. "Elisabetta!"

She opened the door to find an empty room and an open window. She sighed.

"Ludwig!" She tramped her way down the stairs, back into the kitchen. "Elisabetta is gone and her window is open."

The blonde swore. "Shit! Why sa hell would she leave?!"

"She loves us." Prussia drawled sarcastically. "So fucking much. Idiot, seres a thousand and one reasons for her to leave!"

Everyone looked at him. He looked to be in an exceptionally bad mood. Even for him...Okay, when did Prussia and Britain switch bodies?

"Prussia, there is no reason to be rude." Austria said sniffly. He nearly missed ducking a thrown plate. He blinked, violet eyes wide. While Prussia was annoying, he wasn't...Malicious. "What sa..."

"None of you seem to get it!" Prussia snarled, crimson eyes flashing with madness. "Why help her ass if she doesn't want it?" He stabbed his knife into the table and shoved his chair back, storming out. The handle quivered, driven nearly to the handle into the wood.

It was silent. Germany sighed and stood. "I'll go talk to him."

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Pope smiled sweetly, her eyes soft as her pencil flowed over the page of her sketchbook. She hummed softly to herself as Russia lay beside her, still asleep. She giggled softly as her book rose and fell, perched on the man's chest. Having woken cramped and uncomfortable on the window sill, she dragged a mostly asleep Russia over to the bed and cuddled where it was more comfortable. She'd woken happy for the first time in a long time, feeling the urge to draw. She wasn’t as good as, say, Italy, but she was adept. She traced a soft curve, big brown eyes flicking up to Russia's soft face. He was so sweet when he was asleep...it was that baby face of his, she figured. She delicately flicked soft, light lines to shade pale, ash colored lashes hovering over his cheek, a soft caress against featureless paper.

Her phone buzzed and she picked up. She blinked and answered it. "Hello?"

"Little sister~!"

Pope giggled softly. "Big brother..." She shook her head. "This isn'ta good time. Shall I meet you for lunch?"

"Okay~!"

Pope hung up with a smile. "Silly big brother. Still kicking around."

She looked up and met sleepy violet eyes. "Did I wake you up?"

Russia shook his head. "Not really. What time is it?"

"Mid morning. I’ve gotta lunch date with my brother, so you got ta go home." Pope smiled and kissed his nose as she got up.

Russia made a face. "But I don't want to."

Pope giggled and sat up, her clothes from yesterday rumpled from sleeping in them. "You gotta, love." She ran her fingers through his hair for a moment before standing. "Illa see you later."

Russia sighed and got up as well. Pope smiled up at him and went for the bathroom to shower. Weighing his options, Russia balked at leaving. But, he left anyway. She was still his at the end of the day.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Germany pushed open his brother's door, tired of having to dance around the moody Prussia.  
"Bruder...what was that all about?"

"None of your damn business, West." Prussia muttered, laying on his bed, his back was towards the door, and, thus, anyone he didn’t want to talk to. "You wouldn’t understand anyway. No-one bloody well would."

"Well, then stop taking it out on everyone." Germany growled sternly. "If you don't want to share, sen keep your temper to yourself. There is no point to making everyone else miserable about something that ve aren't even aware of."

Prussia turned over, glaring, and got up. Germany startled. He had never seen his brother like this at all…

Prussia's top lip curled up in a sneer, crimson eyes dull. His cheeks were streaked with drying tears. He looked like he'd gone a week without sleep.

"What? Have anything else to say, West? Well," He looked half murderous as he took a step towards his brother, who stood his ground uneasily. Even if he was a good few inches shorter than his brother, he was stronger than he looked and unpredictable. "When you've lived half as long as I have, seen half sa things I've seen, then we can talk. Until then, you can shut sa fuck up and listen to me when I say you don't need to know!" Germany was so caught off kilter, he barely stood a chance when Prussia pushed him aside and ran out. He twitched when the front door slammed.

Brother….

Germany turned and took off after him.

____________________________________________________________________________

Pope listened to one of her table mates chatter, sitting quietly along with  
the other. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t interested…

"Sorella, what are you doing?"

Pope started, having gotten distracted. "What did you say, Big brother  
Rome?"

The man sighed dramatically. "Little sister, what has you so  
distracted today? You haven’t been listening to word Ive said!"

Pope sighed. "I'm sorry. Everything has been sort of weird lately."

She groaned when her phone buzzed. She was tired of that damn thing! This  
was the fifth time it had gone off in ten minutes!

Pope snatched up her phone and answered it. "WHAT!?"

"Uh, Elisabetta?"

The woman blinked. "Roderich? What the hell do you want?"

"Elisabetta, please look out for Gilbert. He's out of his mind, and Ludvig  
is looking for him. If you see him, feel free to knock him out. He threw a  
plate at me and has been acting miserly all week."

Pope sucked her teeth with irritation. "Thank you, Roderich, for ruining my lunch."

"But you'll keep a look out for him?"

"Fine, fine. I will keep look out."

The call ended and Pope looked wearily at her third companion, a stone  
faced man with long blonde hair. "Big brother Germania, your grandson  
is pain."

"Gilbert?" Was the quiet reply.

"Yes. He's been a pain a long time."

The man sighed.

"Don't give me that look, big brother." Pope complained as the stern  
gaze continued, her phone buzzing a sixth time. She answered it to get away  
from the stare. "What now?"

"I have tracked him to Italy, Elisabetta."

"Oh COME THE FUCK ON!"

On the other line, Germany sighed. "Elisabetta..."

"Look, Ludwig, I do not care if you are in bloody Italy or in  
Fucking, Austria. Just let me eat my lunch with my big brothers  
in peace!"

Germany blinked into his phone. He didn’t even know she knew his name.  
"Look, Elisabetta, he went that way for a reason. I don't know what that  
reason may be, but he needs to be found. I would help Feliciano look for you, so please help me look for him."

Pope sighed heavily. "I guess I have no choice. Big brother Germania is  
staring at me." She peeled off a couple of bills for her meal and stood,  
hanging up. She put her hands on her hips. "Happy? Now I gotta go  
lookin for his dumb ass."

"....Have fun."

"Shut up."

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Prussia, drink in hand, wandered around aimlessly, not a clue where he was,  
just glad to be drunk. His head hurt from crying, and his feet hurt from  
walking.

He sat down hard and stared at his bottle hard. It was mostly empty, and  
that annoyed him. He looked around blearily. He was in the woods of some  
sort, sitting on an old, fallen log.

Where the fuck was he?

"Idiot, what the hell are you doing out here?"

He looked up, startled. He found himself face to waist with none other than  
Pope, looking annoyed.

He blinked.

Pope sighed and pulled out her phone, dialing. "I'll have Ludwig come  
and pick you up."

Prussia took her phone and shut it. "No."

"What tha-!!? Give that back!" Pope lunged for her phone, easily held  
off. "Bastard!"

"No." He said quietly, slipping it into his pocket. "I don't want to see West."

Pope blinked, looking up at him. Since when was Prussia calm?

Then she noticed the streaks down his face, the dark circles around his eyes.  
She sighed and sat back up. "What the hell is up? Everyone is worried  
about you..."

Prussia shook his head and shot back the rest of his beer. "No they  
aren't..."

"Oh, please. Austria called me and Germany followed you all the way  
here. Drop the bull and tell me why you came here."

Prussia sighed heavily. "Of all people, you are se only one who  
understands..."

Pope looked down. "What do I know? Im the damn church and I don't even know if God even exists....”

"If he's there, he sure doesn’t give a damn about me..."

Pope hesitated. Then she took his hand, callused and scarred, but still slender and fine, and pushed it up against his chest. "What do you  
feel?"

"My heartbeat." Prussia snarked moodily. "Duh."

"Feliciano always told me that whenever it seemed that God has been  
away, that you can always find him in yourself." Pope continued  
quietly, as if she hadn't heard his remark. Her eyes were fixed on his,  
somehow purely sincere. For once in a long time.

Prussia didn’t know what to say. Why was she being nice to him? Was it April Fools Day?

This was something both old and new. She looked like the young religion he  
had once knew, and something more.

This was right back where they had been, as if they had never had that fight, as if she had never left. That feeling, those thoughts of ‘You could be more.’ bloomed in his head for the first time in such a long while.

"How...do you figure sat?" He forced himself to ask, struggling not to  
drown because he forgot to breathe.

"I don't know." Pope murmured. Was his face getting closer, or was it  
just vertigo? "But if you think about it...It makes some sense...."

"Sense how?" Came his light chuckle.

"Well..." Pope felt disoriented. Her face felt warm and the air smelled  
strongly of liquor. "God is love...so where else would he be?"

"DOITSU~!!! I FOUND-A THEM~!!"

The two sprang apart as if a gun had been shot off, their cheeks red. A few  
moments later both Italy and Germany appeared.The former blinked in  
confusion and the latter frowned in contemplation. Pope, looking for  
something to do that would resemble normalcy, she grabbed Prussia's  
forgotten beer bottle and smashed it over his head, knocking him out.

Italy squeaked and pulled her away to prevent another assault. Germany picked up his brother with a sigh.

Italy dragged Pope off, who glanced back at the Germans, eyes wide.

Germany shook his head and headed off towards home. At least now he had a chance of keeping his brother from hurting himself...

 

___________________________________________________________________________

 

"Zo, what iz wrong again?"

France chuckled as he was waved off with a half full wine glass.

"Nothings wrong." Pope mumbled half way into her glass.

"Zen, Elizabetta, why are you here?"

"Oh, shut tha hell up."

France waited patiently, nibbling delicately on one of his grand food concoctions. Pope had something on her mind, and it was usually a good idea for her to be watered down with wine before she spoke. Speaking of which, he refilled her glass, which she was gratefully face first in immediately after.

France sighed. This was about the third bottle she'd gone through.

"Zilly Elizabetta, are you ever going to tell me your worriez?"

Pope sighed. "Im not sure how to start..." She turned her gaze out towards the sky, a dim grey cloudy affair that was usual for early November. "I guess....It started when I got in trouble with Ivan. Gilbert saved me." Her voice fell to a pained whisper. "He had been outside my house, and...he..."

France nodded. "Zat waz at ze end of June, waz it? Why haz it been zo long and you are ztill thinking about it?"

"Well, Stupid Ludwig made me stay at his house, and...well, stuff happened...."

At the blonde's arched brow and devilish look in his eyes, Pope waved her hand. "Not like that, you frog. I mean, he was hurt worse than me...I only had broken arm...We talked. Once, before I left. I...Im not sure that I really understood what happened...And in September, when I had- to go an'a look for him, we'a talked then too..."

"That’s the problem with you Italianz!" France laughed as he refilled their glasses. Now that Pope was talking, she would drink less. "You all talk too much!"

"Im serious, Francis!" Pope snapped irritably. "I mean...we a-almost..."

"Yeeeezzz?"

Pope got really quiet, squirming in her seat. "W-well...I think...I think we almost...kissed..." 

Her cheeks got red and France laughed. "Iz that all, mi cherrie!?"

"Stop it..." Pope mumbled, turning her eyes down, her skin redder than her wine. "It’s not funny..."

"But it IZ!" France cackled. "Thatz all you have been worried about!?"

"Theres Ivan too..."

That shut him up.

"Well, little zizter, you cannot love two men at a time.”

“But what about polyamorous couples?” Pope mumbled around a delightful cracker with smoked salmon and creamcheese.

“True. But Ivan and Gilbert and neither poly and they both ‘ate each other."

"And I never said that I loved Gilbert!" Pope laid her forehead on the table with a thump. "And even if I did, which I dont, what do I do?! Ivan hasn’t talked to me in month and Gilbert has my phone! And I don’t think I can just show up an' get it!"  
France toyed with a lock of her thick hair. "Im zure we can think of zomezing."

___________________________________________________________________________

"Why don't you go and give her the damn thing back?" Germany growled and slapped Prussia's knee with a wooden spoon. The albino was sitting on the counter, going through a pink cell phone, making faces depending on what he found. "It's been long enough."

Prussia rolled his eyes at a picture of Russia and Pope before scrolling to the next. "I'll give it back when she comes an' gets it." The next picture was, surprisingly, of Austria, sitting at his piano, looking graceful and self important. The next was a captured moment of one of England and France’s fights.

Did this chick have nothing better to do than stalk people? Not that he had any room to talk, anyway.

The phone was yanked out of his hand and he was shoved off the counter. Prussia glared at his brother. The younger man was in the middle of preparing dinner and was wearing a plain white, perfectly starched apron. His shirt sleeves were rolled back and he wielded a wooden spoon deftly. In his other hand was Pope's cell phone. "Go bother someone else, Gilbert." Germany whacked his brother lightly on the nose with the spoon and went back to the food.

Prussia grumbled. He needed that phone back.

Germany started when a strong arm wrapped around his waist, the other digging in his pocket. He struggled to shove the Prussian off as a knock came sounding at the door.

"It's open!" Prussia shouted as he struggled to get the phone.

"Mr Beilschmidt! Why you say come in when you are doing naughty things to Mr Ludwig!?"

Prussia grinned maliciously at Italy. "Are you jealous, Feliciano chan?"

He blinked and his grin faded. Standing behind Italy was Pope, looking shocked. Then his fingers closed.around the phone and he yanked it out of Germany’s pocket triumphantly. "Ha!"

Ducking Germany's punch he darted out, laughing. "I got it, West! Haha!"

Germany tore after him, angry. "GILBERT! GET BACK HERE NOW!"

Prussia's infuriating reply was to blow a raspberry and disappear from sight.

Germany returned to the kitchen, annoyed, and found Italy tending to the stove, Pope sitting down, her feet propped up on the kitchen table. She was wearing creamy brown ankle high heeled boots, dark blue jeans, a pink blouse and a dark coat. She didn’t look happy. "Where's my phone, German?" She looked at him, her brown eyes cold. "I need it back."

Germany sighed. "East just took off with it."

Pope grumbled and stood, going to go look for the energetic german.

Italy looked at Germany. "Hiya, Ludwig!" He cheeped happily, smiling.

"What are you doing to my dinner?"

"Im making it not taste yucky and plain!"

Germany was half tempted to throw Italy out on his ear, but didn’t knowing that he'd be right back again. Instead he sighed and sat down at the table with a sigh.

"You know," Italy said quietly as he cooked. "Big sister has been kind of quiet, lately."  
Germany looked up. "Hn?" He didn’t really care about the annoying Italian bitch right now. He was sick of the drama that she seemed to leave in her wake.

"She doesn't yell at me when I do something wrong. She just shoves me outta the way and does it herself." Italy continued sadly. "Big brother says that you have corrupted her." The suddenly sober young man looked at Germany, his brown eyes the same liquidy chocolate shade of brown as his sister's. "Have you? She hasn't changed in hundreds of years."

German shook his head. "I haven't done anything to her."

"Oh. I was hoping that you could have told me what you did so I could turn her back to normal..."

"How can you like her yelling at you all se time?!" Germany demanded. "It should be better now sat she isn't ferociously bossy anymore!"

"Like you yell at me alla the time?" Italy said in a soft voice, looking down at his feet. The food was already forgotten. "Like you have to be bossy and perfect all the time? Maybe you didnt do anything. Maybe she just stopped being like you..."

Germany stared at Italy, thunderstruck and lost for words. Italy, not seeing any foreseeable thaw of his friend's slack jawed dumbfoundedness, went to find his sister.

Was Italy right? Germany mused to himself. Had Pope stopped being like herself because he acted the same way?

"BIG SISTER!?"

Germany, disturbed by Italy's yelling, got up and went to go see what was going on.

He blinked as he rounded the corner and stopped. On the back wall of the house, Prussia had Pope pushed back against the brick, hands tight on her shoulders.

What was really dumbfounding was that they were just pulling up, startled, from a deep kiss.  
Italy was beside himself with confusion, and Germany not far along behind.

What the FUCK!?

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Pope walked out of the kitchen and through the back door, looking for the red eyed german. She found him out back, sitting on the roof of his little shed, fiddling with something pink. Her phone!

"Oi! Stupid-a German! Thats mine!"

Prussia jumped, startled. "What, have you finally come back for this?" He jauntily waved the phone and jumped down, grinning. "It must be something of little importance to you, to wait so long to come and get it."

Pope scowled. "Give-a that back, damnit!"

Prussia clicked his tongue, tutting, as he hopped down lightly. "Say se magic words."

Pope looked like she was about to punch him. "Give it, now!" She jumped for it and he held it up over his head teasingly. "It doesn’t look like you can reach."

He was tackled around the waist to the ground, less than a hundred pounds of Italian girl on top of him. Small hands scrabbled at his tight fist to get to the phone and he laughed, rolling over and pinning her down. "Silly little girl, there’s no way you could beat me in a battle of strength."

Pope looked away. "Fine..." She grumbled as she slithered out from under him. "Keep the damn thing. It’s not like I could get it from you..."

Prussia sat up as she stood, dusting herself off. Her cheeks were red and her hair was in a slight disarray. She turned to go back inside when his free hand lit on her shoulder and her phone was slipped into her hand.

"No need to be a spoil sport." Prussia murmured and took his hand away. "Just having a little fun, is all."

Pope turned and looked at him. "Why do you havta be an ass?"

He raised a brow. "I am not a pack bearing mule."

She punched him at his shoulder. "Stupid German..."

He chuckled and grabbed her fist. "Stupid, eh?"

Pope was suddenly very uncomfortable, feeling like her insides just got turned to jello, her pulse throbbing in her throat. There was that feeling of vertigo again. But, this time, it moved a little faster and she closed her eyes. Her back met something solid and rough just before her mouth was covered with warm, dry lips. She shivered as excitement coursed through her veins at this forbidden pleasure. Vindictively, the back of her mind spat of her cheating, and the forward told the rear to go to hell; she was enjoying this. Her phone dropped, forgotten, from her numb fingers as they wound up into soft silver hair. Plastic clattered on the ground, but neither noticed nor cared, enthralled with the feeling the other's touch gave.

"BIG SISTER!?"

Two pairs of eyes flashed open and two pairs of lips tore apart to turn and look at a frantically confused Italy, and after a few moments, a shocked Germany.

Italy was chattering frightenedly as he grabbed Pope's arm, scooped up her dropped phone and dragged her away.

Germany eyed his brother when they had left, wary. Prussia had an odd look on his face. His expression looked like shell shocked had a baby with ecstasy and named confused the godparent.

After a few minutes of silence, it was broken by a gleeful whoop from Prussia. Germany sighed and shook his head.

Maybe he'd get back to normal soon…

___________________________________________________________________________

Okay, so cloud nine was cool.

Like, really cool.

Prussia literally couldn’t help it. All he did for the next week was daydream about kissing Pope. It crept into his dreams, and washed out any coherent thought he might have had otherwise.

He would, however, if you asked, swear up and down that he was not “in love”.

Absolutely not.

Pope just kissed really really well. He could get behind that. 

And possibly fuck it into the mattre--

Nopenopenopenope.

He already had it bad thinking about the kissing. He didnt need to make it worse.

Besides. She had a boyfriend. An abusive communist asshole boyfriend, but still.

This was getting him nowhere. He needed to talk to her.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

There would be absolutely no question about it: She was freaking out.

Pope was beside herself.

What did she do? She had kissed Prussia. She was dating Russia.

She was so dead. So fucking dead.

She remembered the kiss, warm and hard, full of passion, like everything Germans did. Absently, she touched her lips.

Would he let her kiss him again?

She gripped her hair at the roots and screamed in frustration.

There was no easy way out of this.

Then her phone rang.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Prussia totally understood the need for secrecy. He got it. 

Middle of the woods? Not as much.

Middle of the woods in Germany?

What the fuck was that woman thinking?

So he waited. Like, after an hour, he was bored. But it was well worth the wait. Outfitted in stylish hiking boots and jeans, Pope appeared. He waved, and she smiled.

“Hey, shorty. Make it alright?”

“Stupid Protestant.”

He laughed. “So, why way out here? I get that you want secrecy, but se woods?”

She sighed, and smiled. “You don’t recognize this place, do ya?”

He shook his head. “Nooooooo?”

She laughed. “Idiot. We met here. I fell out of rose bush.”

He blinked and looked around. “A…. A lot’s changed in like…”

“Eight centuries?”

“Yeah.”

Pope scuffed her booted in the dirt. “What did ya wanna talk about?”

Prussia took a deep breath. “What are we gonna do? I….I cant stop thinking about…”

She nodded and touched her lips. “I think about it a lot….”

“I don’t know how ya can stay with sat asshole communist after what he did to you.” Prussia grumbled. “What he does.”

Pope took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just…”

“Ich vermisse dich.” Prussia murmured. Pope flinched. “Können wir wieder Freunde sein?”

She nodded slowly. “I can’t see why not.” She smiled and looked up at him. “Why dont we go get drinks to celebrate?”

He snagged her around the waist and pulled her close. “Oooooooor we can stick around here and you can makeout with the awesome me?”

She laughed and kissed him, sweet from her chapstick. “Beer time, soldier.” she said when she pulled away. “März”

___________________________________________________________________________

 

It wasn’t often that Germany had odd dreams that seemed intensely out of place in his life, but horribly real all the same.

But when he did, He usually told his brother, who would make ‘hmm’ing noises at him and tell his it was just a dream.

Prussia didn’t just ‘hmm’.

But this time, he didn’t want to tell his brother.

He had the weirdest inkling to tell the feisty Italian who had been hanging around his brother.

He had no idea why.

He managed to catch her on the way past his door. “Hey, Elisabetta? Can I speak with you?”

She stopped and blinked, before nodding. “Sure. Whats up?”

He sat at his desk. “I’ve been having these dreams….I don’t understand them. They are like from another time...another place.”

Pope sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, crossing her legs. “What was the dream about?”

“I was...very small. And I remember a pope...He crowned an emperor. I don’t know why I vas ere, but…”

“Because you were.” Pope said calmly.

He blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.”

Germany frowned. “I wasn’t born yet.”

“Yes you were. I remember. You were so cute and tiny.”

“Then--”

“Look. You do not remember. And you do not want to know why.” she said seriously.

Germany frowned. “You stop talking like Italy when you’re serious.”

“Personal flaw. It happens when Im upset, too. Big deal.”

“Why can I not remember something like my early life?”

Pope sighed. “Have you ever heard of the Battle of Austerlitz?”

Germany nodded. “It was a tactical masterpiece.”

Pope nodded. “After that battle, after that defeat, on August 6th, 1806, the Holy Roman Empire was dissolved, and France’s boss took control of the lands. They became the Confederation of the Rhine. They...they changed you. They took your memories of your life, cut them away, and made you into something they could control.”

Germany blinked. “‘Cut away?’”

Pope closed her eyes. “Minor lobotomy.”

He just stared at her.

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“If you don’t believe me, go ask Gilbert.”

Germany got up. “I will.”

____________________________________________________________________________

 

“I can’t believe you told him!” Prussia hissed at Pope when they were alone. “I thought we weren’t going to tell him!”

“He deserves to know, Gilbert.” Pope said softly. “It’s his life.”

“I know, I know! But he would have figured it out!”

“What if he hadnt figured it out before we had disappeared?” Pope snapped. “He would have never gotten the truth! Because Francis would never tell! He’ll take the surgical secret to his grave!”

Prussia stopped and turned, taking her hand. “That wont happen. Especially not now. And we won’t disappear. I promise.”

“How can you promise that?”

“Because I’m awesome like that.”

She laughed and buried her face in his chest, leaning on him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He looked down and there was a little yellow bird sitting on her shoulder. He blinked.

It grunted at him.

What the fuck?

___________________________________________________________________________

It was damn cold for March in Siberia.

Pope hated it. Literally hated the cold.

The way it settled into her bones, unerring in its quest to make every injury the world had ever done her ache or throb. It would bite at her fingers in her gloves, even wrapped around her coffee, sting her bare face, pincer her eyes from under her sunglasses. It was not malicious or mean, but simply uncaring for her wellbeing.

This is why she had to do this.

She saw him, tall and pale blonde, above everything else, uncaring of the wind, probably sheltered by at least one building, the bastard. She trudged up to him, clutching her hot coffee for dear life. She had to do this, if not for herself, then to protect others. They were all right. She couldn’t keep doing this.

He smiled at her. “Pope! I’m glad to see yo--” He slowed down when he saw her face. “ What’s wrong?”

She looked up, eyes quietly sad. “We need to stop doing this.” she said softly, barely heard over the wind, but he definitely heard it, the way his eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Ivan, but we need to stop seeing each other.”

He froze, and the words hung between them for moments so tense it stole her breath and refuse to return it, even unpostmarked.

“Why?”

The soft cry was so broken, so childlike and full of pain, it literally shattered Pope’s heart to pieces. There was no coming back from it.

“I can’t do this anymore, Ivan.” Pope said, on the verge of sobbing herself, overwhelmed with the pain that one word caused. “I can’t take the abuse. I can’t take the pain. I cannot deal with your dark days anymore. Your happy days….I love those, and I love you for them...But I cannot be your punching bag anymore. I’m so old now...I’m so much older than you, Ivan, you have no idea, and I can’t do it anymore. I’m so sorry.”

Russia was quiet. ‘Don’t be sorry.” he said softly. “I guess...I guess this is my fault...If I wasn’t...so sick…” he spat the phrase with venom. He looked up at her, violet eyes sad. He reached out to touch her cheek, but seemed to think better of it, and let his hand drop to his side in a fist. “I should be sorry.”

“Can we still be friends?” Pope asked, sad.

Russia nodded. “Always. But you should go, before you freeze. I know how you hate the cold, katyonok.”

Pope nodded, and with a heavy heart, left him standing there in the snow.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Over the next, say, week and a half, all Pope does is cry. Drink. More crying. More drinking. A lot of sleeping.

When she emerged from her sunny home later, hungover and half dead, Prussia was waiting on her front porch with a strong cup of coffee and that ridiculous bird sitting on his head.

Pope flopped down next to him and fumbled for the coffee, teeth clamped on the plastic lid as she drank almost half of it in one go. It was hot, and probably had enough espresso for a little American mustang, one of the ones from the banks? She leaned against his shoulder, heavily, making him sway. The little bird grunted in protest.

“How do ya know exactly what I need?”

“Im awesome?”

“Maybe”

“Maybe!?” he squawked

She laughed. “Definitely. Definitely awesome. Shhhhh My head hurts.”

“Because you are a lush.”

“I’m old, I’m allowed my moments of lushiness.”

“How old are you anyvay?”

“Its not polite ta ask a religion her age, Gilbert.”

“No, really!”

“Old enough ta drink in the ancient Middle East.”

“You are old.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Großmutter.”

Pope shoved him off the porch, putting the coffee to her lips and draining it.

It was a good day.

___________________________________________________________________________

 

Worlds night.

Germany was hosting tonight, So, naturally, Prussia was here. For once.

Nobody really cared. He was behaving himself.

Marginally.

He mostly just sat around playing games on his new phone and talking to people. Right now he was talking to Hungary, phone in hand, ignoring the colorful display of cats he was tapping at absently.

It rang.

‘We’re gonna have some fun tonight, ‘cause you can touch my boobies! Don’t be shy, yeah, it’s all right, ‘cause you can touch my boobies! We’re gonna have some fun tonight, ‘cause you can touch my boobies!’

He swiped the screen quickly, answering the call. “Ja?”

“Are ya playin that kitty game again?”

“Maybe. Why don’t ya come over here an find out?”

“Nah. Imma talkin with Spain.”

“Fancy Spaniard.”

“Indeed.”

He stared at his phone, the line dead.

Prussia looked up to see Hungary staring at him. He grinned. “We seem to change our ringtone for eachother every week.”

She sighed. “I see.”

________________________________________________________________________________

 

Pope was going shots for shots with America when her phone rang.

‘Loooooong, long time ago! In a galaxy, far in a galaxy, far far away! There once was a boy slave destined to save space. He wins a big pod race and hits on a queen. Padme’s a cougar. Qui gets killed by Darth Maul, who is then chopped in half. Obi Wan must train the one from Tatooineeeee--’

Pope fumbled for her phone, somehow swiping call on this stupid newfangled smartphone Italy bought her for Christmas. “Helloooooo?”

“Are you drunk already? You are losing your touch.”

“Go to hell, Gilbert, Im in the middle of something.”

“Text me when you’re done? Im booooored.”

“Drink more. Idiot.”

“Come drink with me, sen.”

“After I whoop this baby’s ass.”

________________________________________________________________________________

 

Prussia was sitting with Japan and Ireland, phone expectantly on the table. They were talking and drinking when it unexpectedly vibrated and screamed “I AM CATBUG!”

Prussia snatched up his phone.

Where are you? You would imagine that blonde would be easy to spot but noooooooooo.

He grinned.

Im in the middle of the room, ja? Follow the sound of catbug!”

He heard her text tone, but couldn’t make it out. Several “I AM CATBUG!”’s later, he heard it, and wanted to laugh. He guessed she still wasnt off her Star Wars kick from last week when they saw all six movies at home, and then went to see The Force Awakens three times.

“Hello from the darkside, I must have killed all the jedi!”

As Pope took a seat, Ireland shook her head, peering at them over her beer.

“Ya too are too weird fer the likes o’me.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Summer shopping date. They did it all the time.

The three of them, a girls day out, shopping and swapping gossip, just being girls.

Just being religions.

They looked just like any other girls, really.

Judaism had long, dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail, obnoxiously curly, giving her a natural little halo. She had brown eyes and square glasses perched on her nose and dusty brown skin. she wore a skirt and a starched white blouse, ever the classy one. Her white tennis shoes almost sparkled, they were so clean.

Islam was a stark opposite, a riot of color. Her hijab was bright pink with orange lace, and wore jeans and a tshirt, because she was a modern sort of gal. Her skin was a little darker than Judaism’s, and her eyes less heavy lidded. She didn’t looked as youthful as Pope, but still young and spirited.

Pope was dressed down for the day in a sundress and heels, her long strap bag slung over one shoulder.

They had bags, boxes, and even more bags, held in hands, under arms, and slung over shoulders. They unloaded at a little cafe for lunch to unwind and gossip some more.

They had been there ten, maybe fifteen minutes when a shadow crossed their table.

“Weeeeeell lookit this, boys! Ladies out onna town!”

They looked up to see the Bad Touch Trio, of all things. Pope grinned, propping her chin on her hand.

“Ah, ladies, look! What do ya get when- a frenchman, a spaniard, anna german all walk-a into a bar together, hah?”

“What?” Prussia leaned in, as if daring her, his grin bright.

“A coupla fags running from the Inquisition.”

“That wasnt funny several centuries ago and it isnt funny now.” Prussia sighed while the girls cracked up.

France smirked. “It iz kind of true.”

“Just a little.” Spain chuckled.

“Shut up, you.”

“Make me.”

“Fight me.”

“Nooooooo. That means fighting your brother. I will pass.”

Pope shrugged. “I’d fight him any day of the week that ends in ‘Y’, and win.”

“How do you figure, Little Roze?”

“He has no military.”

“Neither do you. And you are smaller.”

“I...Am a senior citizen. Take-a pity.” Pope waved a hand at the table. “Sit. We’re just getting lunch.”

The guys dragged up chairs and sat. Prussia, contrary as a cat, sat backwards in his chair. Pope poured her ice water down his back, forcing him to at least turn the chair towards the table, however backwards it was.

“So, Paris?” Spain asked.

Islam nodded. “I love Paris.”

France waggled his eyebrows. “Everyone doez.”

She stared at him. “I will end you.”

“I know.” France sighed. “After the theatrez…”

Islam held up a hand. “I do not wish to speak of ISIS. I have denounced him as my brother. I will not speak of him.”

“We are doing everything we can, Laela.” Spain said soothingly. “Right now, without openly declaring war, which no one wants to do, all we can do is defend and take in refugees.”

“Can you believe what those American Republicans are saying, Elisabeth?” Prussia grumbled. “About deporting se refugees from se United States? Refusing sem sanctuary?”

Pope frowned. “I could understand it, maybe, if I was Francis. One of the shooters used a refugee passport. But, no, what they’re saying is disgusting. And half of their presidential candidates are saying rancid things. More than half. I only like maybe one of them.”

“If you zay Trump--” France said darkly. “After what ‘e zaid on Twitter about gun toting for the shootingz--”

“Elisabeth means Sanders.” Judaism interjected. Pope shot her a grateful look. She saved her ass. “She has been really progressive since her new boss came into his position.”

“Thanks, Ariella.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I hope this all ends soon.” Spain sighed. “This is all nuts.”

Their waitress came by and they ordered, but were quiet for a few minutes after she left.

“So what are tha Bad-a Boys up ta today?” Pope asked.

Prussia shrugged. “Hanging out. Everyone has been so busy lately. We needed a breather.”

Pope raised a brow. “Ya were so busy doing…?”

He rolled his eyes. “None of your business.”

She smiled. “So...Something.”

“Maybe. None of your business.”

“Any plaaaaaans?”

“We were thinking of jamming out tonight.” Spain offered. “Maybe you’d like to join?”

Pope blinked. Then she grinned. “Thats right. You three play instruments.”

“I don’t mind.” Islam purred. “Another night in Paris won’t bother me a bit.”

Judaism sighed. “I guess I’m in.”

____________________________________________________________________________

As promised, it was a jam fest.

There was music, with the bonus of food and the occasional break for a bad romance or sci-fi movie.

Then the comment about the songs kind of started a whole conversation.

“Okay, so, as a sort of thing, Japan got all se countries together to write and produce a song or two to promote this anime he put out.” Prussia explained. “It was really cool. It was mostly in Japanese, but with dashes of our own language in there.”

Pope blinked. “Thats...Really kinda cool.”

“I wanna do that!” Islam piped up, almost upsetting the popcorn bowl. “Can we do that?!”

France chuckled. “Of courze, mi cherrie.” He got up and retrieved pens and notebooks for all of them.

The three girls got to work, writing and throwing ideas at each other, the boys throwing their own opinions in sometimes. Sometimes food got thrown. Movie after movie got put on in the background.

Pope looked up once to find that The Princess Bride was playing. Prussia was actually watching it. She rolled her eyes.

Lord.

Everyone eventually kind of dozed off where they sat, curling up around pillows or notebooks, or in Prussia’s case, sprawling out loosely on the armchair he had claimed early in the evening.

All but Pope.

She had set her mind on writing this song, and was determined to finish it.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

In the wee hours of the morning, Prussia stirred, something irritating him, poking him in the chest. He tried to wave it away, but it was persistent. He cracked an eye to see Pope leaning over him in the gloom, notebook hugged to her chest.

“Whaaaaaaaat?” he whined.

“Im done.” she whispered fiercely.

“Then go to sleeeeeeeeep.”

“No. Come listen.”

He groaned and decided he would never get back to sleep if he didn’t ascuise to her will. She was a damn tyrant.

Rubbing his eyes, he followed her to the balcony, where the city lights shone sweetly. He faced her, exhaustion nibbling at the edges of his vision.

But then she started to sing.

The delicate strings of a butterfly wing  
or the sound of the hymns they sing  
The gal’ant trumpeting of a lion’s roar  
Whatever am I here for?

Roses roses  
We all fall through time  
It never stops turning  
The past behind us chimes

We curled up together  
And promised forever  
Can we keep each other  
Or will the world be bothered?

Ashes Ashes  
Fire in the home  
What did it this time--  
But war?  
Torn asunder  
Living in the past  
Futures must be lived steadfast

Roses roses  
We all fall through time  
It never stops turning  
The past behind us chimes

We curled up together  
And promised forever  
Can we keep each other  
Or will the world be bothered?

If I saw you tomorrow  
Can I still be yours  
With all the pain we’ve suffered  
Through the march of time?

I’d take your hand and hold on tight  
I’m here now, please don’t go  
I’m here now  
Don’t ever go

He stared, mouth open, as she finished the last, soft note. This was nothing like Italy’s playful ditty, or West’s marching tune...The was a song of bittersweet memories.

Pope stared up at him with wide brown eyes, waiting.

He worked his jaw, trying to find something to say. It was impossible. There were no words. Not for something like that.

It had been so long since he had heard her really sing.

He finally nodded. “Good.” he croaked.

She smiled. “Thank you. I worked hard.”

“I know you did.” he whispered, drawing her close in a tight hug.

He was going to do something he regretted, he just fucking knew it.

He pulled back, and leaned down, capturing her lips. She made a startled sound against his mouth, but leaned into the kiss with a sigh.

But this was Paris. He could blame it on France.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pope was lounging on the couch, watching TV when her phone buzzed. I fell in love with the girl at the rock show! She picked up her phone and opened the message.

And stared at it.

Wanna go to do dinner?

Tonight? Like a date?

If I say yes, will you punch me?

Only if you admit that being beat up by a woman is a turn on.

Deal. So, I’ll pick you up at 5?

Pope looked at the clock above the mantle. Fuck.

5:30.

Sharp.

Pope scrambled off the couch.

She needed a fucking shower yesterday.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Prussia rang Pope’s doorbell, rocking back and forth on his feet, humming. It was 5:30 sharp, just like he said.

At 5:32, the door opened in a hurry, and he grinned.

Pope was there, all dolled up and ready to go. She smiled at him, her purse slung over her shoulder.

He offered his arm. “After all this time?”

She grinned. “Always.”

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Prussia was literally done with everything. It’s one thing when France happens to be waiting tables at the restaurant you take your girl to on your first date. The guy’s main squish was food. Got it, really.

It is quite another when the entertainment for the evening was you other friend, Spain.

Luckily, Pope was amused.

“Im sure you didn’t ask them ta do this.”

“I will kill them. I may be literal history, but I vill kill sem.”

Spain is wandering through the tables, singing in spanish and playing guitar. The waitstaff seems used to this, as entertainment is a nightly affair, and the artists have a mind of their own.

France is somehow less than graceful tonight, of all nights.

As Spain passes, his guitar bumps his elbow, and a whole plate of antipasto upends into Pope’s lap.

Understandably, she decks him.

They leave.

____________________________________________________________________________

They end up eating take out pizza on the hood of his car, drinking from a six pack, laying back and looking up, watching the stars.

It was a clear night, and the night was lit up spectacularly.

They are holding hands like teenagers, and laughing like children, and kissing like lovers.

It is a wonderful night.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Ireland did not know what a “weeb” was, or why she was one, but she enjoyed Pope and Prussia’s company. She laughed at their ruined date story, and aww’d at all the cute parts, setting down the newly clean beer mug. She watched them drink from their own, bickering over something or other.

The door caught her eye, as a big redhead sauntered in. O’Malley. He was a womanizer, and a drunk, and was only welcome in her pub half the time.

Half the time he was putting off some poor lass, the other it was fights. Sometimes both.

She didn’t need this shit tonight.

O’Malley made his way up to the bar and she slid him a pint. He took a deep draught of it and leaned into Pope. “Whatcha doin ‘ere, Miss Pretty?”

Pope turned her head and eyed him coldly. “I’d suggest ya get outta my face, asshole.” she said very softly.

He sneered. “Yer and what army, eh?”

There was a hard click of glass on the countertop and then boots hit the ground.

The pub went silent. Heads turned.

O’Malley was jerked out of his seat by the back of his jacket and shoved back.

He may have towered over Prussia by six inches, but the stocky German had muscle, where the Irishman had long gone to fat. And didn’t have several centuries of combat under his belt.

O’Malley peered down at Prussia from beady eyes. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

Prussia just waited. Impatient as ever, but he waited.

“You!?” the redhead bellowed, and the pub roared with laugher. “ You!? Yer puny!”

“Ooooooo you shouldn’t have said that.” Aislin said softly to Pope, who wasn’t even watching, just drinking, smiling at the Irish girl. “Just wait, this will be good.” the Italian woman said.

“Yeah, yeah, Im short, so what? Wanna say anything else I don’t know? Im German? I’m white?”

“Protestant?” Pope suggested.

“You stay out of this.”

“Boss-y.”

O’Malley swung, but Prussia didn’t even blink. He ducked down and came back up with a punch to the gut so strong that it drove the wind from the man’s body. He kicked out, catching the rear of his boot behind O’Malley’s knee and jerked, sending him crashing back to the floor. And spinning, like a Russian figure skater (dont ever tell him that, he will deny his occupation by Russia to the grave), he drew the same leg up and brought it down on the man’s stomach, winding him once again. Skipping over, he gave a quick kickball-style kick to O’Malley’s head, knocking him out.

The pub could have been a cemetery, it was so quiet.

Ireland cleared her throat. “Gilbert, You bagged it up so nicely, would ya mind taking out tha trash?”

Prussia grinned.

“No problem.”

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Probably the perfect way to end a shitty date/not shitty date/bar fight was making out on the couch in the safety of the home, house, what the fuck ever.

He could get behind this, her tongue in his mouth; soft and smooth, darting gently instead of overpowering and demanding.

And other places.

If he could hit himself, he would. Getting a hard on right now would be the single most--

Okay, her little hand had crept up under his shirt, when had that happened?

She grabbed his lower lip in her teeth and bit down gently, scraping as she pulled his lip through the gap. He groaned softly. Holy fuck, where had she learned to do that?

He had no idea what his hands were doing, he should find those, yeah?

His left, he found squeezing her ass, and what an ass it was, holy hell. Soft and plump, it squished just right under his grip, molding to his hand and just firm enough to confirm it was real. The right was half up under the back of her shirt, tracing vague patterns on her hot skin, no reason or rhyme, just absent minded toil to arouse and excite.

What was he doing with his life? This. This was what he was doing with his life, and he had no regrets. If this led to sex, and she killed him later...well...as the kids in America said...YOLO.

Prussia opened his eyes when she pulled back, and her gaze burned into his. Okay, either he was fucking crazy or--

“C’mon.”

“Uhhhh---?”

She grabbed his hand and dragged him up off the plush couch, and out of the living room. Left turn, a little bit of towing, right turn, more pulling, right turn, and she hauled him through the door. Spinning him around, she gave a big shove, and he fell back, flailing and unbalanced.

Instead of falling on the floor, or worse, a table, he fell onto a large bed, oh so soft and fluffy with a big light pink comforter. He lifted his head and looked at her, legs hanging off the bed and arms straight to either side. He was seriously unattractive in this moment. Of course.

He watched as Pope carelessly tossed off her soft brown cardigan and pulled out of her lacy shirt, then tugged down her stylish jeans, stepping out of them.

Okay, there was no way he was not willing, and there was no way his body was not going to react to that...but…

Left in sensual lacy lingerie, she climbed up over him on hands and knees, kissing where his ear met his jaw, and he shivered. He reached up and touched where the bottom her bra met the skin and slid his palms down her sides until he met the top edge of her panties.

“Are you sure?” He asked, and, oh God, his voice was wrecked, the things she did, had done, and hopefully would do to him.

She slowly licked the shell of his ear, making him shudder. “I am so sure, Gilbert. Anything but unsure.”

“Uh, well, good, because consent is important, and I uh…”

She pulled back and looked at him, eyes infinitely calm. “Do you want to do this?”

He breathed out a shudder. “Gott--sofuckingmuchplease”

She smiled sweetly. “Good. I’d hate to ruin a thing before it got started. And I know I’m shit at the whole consent thing, but I’d like to be better.”

He gently slid a hand up her back, lightly scraping her skin with his blunt nails. “I can help you learn, if that’s what you want.”

She kissed down his throat, pausing to suckle on his pulse. He threw his head back, his breathing growing ragged with the building arousal thrumming in his veins, slowly fueling a fire in his belly that burned ever brighter and fanned flames that grew hotter with every passing moment.

And they hadn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

Calm down, or you’re going to embarrass yourself like a horny teen. He thought to himself in frustration as Pope let up, if only to let him take off his shirt, before attacking him again.

I am going to be so sore in the morning. Prussia mused to himself, thoughts completely flipped as she sucked another dark mark into his pale skin. He was going to look like he’d fallen into a lake with horny wide mouth bass for a week or two.

He reached up and unhooked her bra, drawing it off a side at a time before slingshotting it across the room.

Okay, so he was pretty much five years old. Big deal.

Pope laughed at him, the sound full and robust. He grinned.

They sat up, and she leaned back on his lap. Prussia drank in the sight of her for a moment, before reaching out with grabby hands.

Remember the last time you did that? He chuckled to himself. Its not like that! He retorted to himself. And Hungary got over it!

He cupped her breasts, tweaking her pert nipples, dark with her natural tan. As she lolled her head back against his stomach, neck limp, he bent down in half, (because no, he would never speak of all of the yoga he once tried to do) and tongued one precious nub, scraping it in with his teeth.

Her gasp was precious.

“Is this good?” He asked, pulling back to gauge her reaction.

“I swear if you don’t keep doing that I will neuter you.” she groaned desperately.

“Thanks for the incentive, I think?” he laughed weakly. He shifted around so he was kneeling over her from the front, instead of over her head. She must have been getting a serious crick in the neck.

He toyed with her experimentally, using his mouth and hands to find out what she liked, what she disliked, and what she really really liked. After she finally had enough of the swelling holocaust within her she pushed him away, back onto the bed, where he bounced, a little stunned.

What was going on?

It took him a minute to figure out where she was going, and what she was doing, but he tried not to grin like an idiot when he figured it out.

You had to be truly stupid to not notice your belt buckle being undone, and not know what that meant.

He wiggled out of his jeans, and his boxers following with a flying finish. He watched as they sailed through the air and struggled not to laugh. As it was, he almost missed the predatory look on Pope’s face before she went down on him.

He never knew what hit him. And boy did it hit him.  
He moaned helplessly and gripped the silky hair of his beloved as the other bobbed her head up and down. She had her plump, luscious lips wrapped his cock, doing devilishly wonderful things to the aroused flesh with her tongue, things a normal human would be incapable of. But not Pope. This was the best head he had ever received. She was able to take him so deep in her throat, and she focused on the task with such dedication, drawing out and enhancing his pleasure in ways he would have never...  
Prussia opened his eyes and looked at Pope , who had pulled off of his dick and was now staring at the organ in serious contemplation, her hand supporting her chin like the Thinker statue. It was as if Pope was calculating the exact size and density of Prussia’s arousal, or trying to determine the molecular structure of his shaft.  
He wanted to get annoyed, but dammit, Pope just looked so cute when she was thinking hard. Those long lashes and brown puppy dog eyes made it nearly impossible to take her serious sometimes. Prussia, ever the accommodating lover, sighed. "What is it now?" he asked patiently.  
Pope’s deep brown eyes slowly rolled up to look at him with a very serious expression. She opened his beautiful mouth, lips slightly swollen from sucking him off, and asked, so serious: "Why is it called a 'blow job'?"  
Prussia stared at her in disbelief, stunned into silence. This was what had interrupted the religion’s fantastic ministrations? “You’re kidding me, right?”  
"Based on what is done, it would be called a 'suck job', right?" Pope continued, and Prussia couldn't deny the quiver of delight at her words. She almost never spoke lewdly, would hardly ever even say the word "sex", much less "suck job,” considering her occupation with the church. Just then, unexpectedly, Pope wrapped her lips around his length once more. She swallowed it down again and sucked hard, as if to demonstrate her point. Prussia moaned, his head falling back. Then, to his agitation, she pulled back off. Prussia grumbled at her, disgruntled.  
"It’s not the greatest euphemism," she said conversationally, basically ignoring his frustration. "If I were to blow on your dick, it would make it cold." She giggled, then puckered her lips and blew across the wet head, making him gasp and bite his lip hard.  
What in the name of God and beer was she doing, trying to kill him? He looked down where she had resumed calmly running her tongue along the underside of his dick. Then he blew again over the area she'd just wetted with his saliva. Prussia let a small, involuntary yelp.  
Who taught this girl how to give a blowjob? Like, seriously? Michelangelo couldn’t even paint anything close to how good this felt.

Oh God, he was going to come in her goddamn mouth like a horny teenager.  
Pope just smirked. It was ever so slight, but Prussia caught it. She knew exactly what she was doing to him and she was torturing him on purpose. And she was having plenty of fun doing it.  
Whatever. Prussia let Pope have her fun for a few minutes. Let her hang himself by her own rope. Pope continued the tender assault, alternating delicious licks and sucks with light streams of cool breath until he simply couldn’t take it any longer.  
Pope pulled her head back to blow again on his cock, but Prussia took her surprise, tackling her to the bed. Pope was flat on her back, with Prussia on top of her.  
"It's called a blow job, Elisabetta," Prussia said in a predatory growl, pinning her down. He leaned down to whisper sensually in her ear. "...because at the end, you blow your load into the mouth of whoever is sucking you off. Not that you'll know how that feels for a while. I'll teach you to tease me--give you a lesson you won't soon forget. Be a good girl for me while I have my way with you, and maybe I'll let you do it again sometime."  
He helped her out of her pretty panties, and she giggled as those too were shot across the room, because no, they were not adults.

He grabbed her hips and held on as he slid in, and he groaned, lifting her hips up to meet his pelvis. He missed the little gasp she had made, and he hoped she would do it again, or this wasn’t a one time thing, or something positive along those lines.

And then they moved, God, everything moved. This wasn’t like shifting boxes to change houses, or a walk in the park. Hell, this wasn’t even dancing in the club (though he’d love to see her do that, too.)

No, this was moving.

He swore and she made an obscene noise, snapping together and pulling back only to do it again and again and again.

She cried out as he took the lead, gripping the rumpled and abused bed set beneath them as he thrust into her, setting an unrelenting pace.

He pried a hand from her hip and slipped it between them, his other arm going around her back to steady her. Two of his fingertips found slippery purchase, and rubbed circles on her clit.

Pope screamed.

It wasn’t long before she was continuously screaming, arching into him and shaking like she might come apart at any second.

And then she did. And the absolute tightening was a gift from whatever God has blessed Gilbert that day for whatever whimsy they had at that moment.

Fucking finally. He had almost come once. He didn’t think he could take much longer.

He shuddered through his climax, swearing softly, letting her legs slide down from his shoulders. He crawled up next to her, and pulled her close, just listening to her breathe. Or, trying to, if his hammering heart would calm the fuck down.

“Should wash up.” she mumbled sleepily.

Prussia chuckled. “You’re not even awake. How can you be thinking about a shower?”

“Don’t wanna get tha bed sticky.”

“Quick nap, then, if you can stand, you can think about a shower.”

___________________________________________________________________________  
Pope opened her eyes to soft light and almost as soft snoring. She looked around, smiling as she remembered last night. Prussia’s friends being idiots, pizza under the stars, beer with Ireland, assholes with no sense of personal space or self preservation…the couch.

The bed.

She twisted in a loose grip, snuggling against Prussia’s bare chest. He snorted in his sleep, wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, and snuggled down. Pope leaned up and nibbled on his lower lip, making him yield to a soft kiss, no matter how asleep he was.

Not for long.

He cracked an eye a minute later, looking down at her. “Guten Morgen.” he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Pope giggled. “Buongiorno.”

He chuckled. “If you keep doing sat,” he mumbled sleepily, grabbing her hand where it was dancing idly down his chest. “I won’t be responsible for what I do next.”

“Well, ya certainly arent adult.” Pope quipped back. “Why should I expect anything new?”

He laughed softly. “Give me credit. Im trying to be responsible.”

“Uh huh. Sounds like excuses ta meeeeeee~!”

He growled and mock pounced from only two inches away, rolling her over, throwing blankets as they went.

Tickle war it was.

Well, until Pope grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it.

He grinned. It was so on.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

They went out for coffee, and then Pope dragged him off to God knows where.

They walked, for awhile, until they were hailed.

“Oi, oi, sorella, sorella!! Elisabetta! Gilbert!”

Prussia turned and stopped, frozen.

There was Pope, hugging Rome. Behind them, quiet and watching carefully, was--

“Großvater?”

Blue eyes turned on him, and there was a slight smile, a small nod.

All Prussia could think was Holy fuck how is he still here?

Rome and Pope were chattering at each other, Italians, Prussia thought, never shut up.

“Lets find somewhere to siiiiiit!” Pope whined, pulling on her brother’s arm. “Lets goooooooo!”

They all fell in step, and the familiar march of boots was calming.

“Are you alright?”

Prussia jumped. He had forgotten how quiet Germania was.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m cool. It’s just...it’s been so long since I’ve seen you...it’s a shock…”

Another small nod. His Großvater was not a man of words, but of action.

“Why haven’t you disappeared?” Prussia ventured. “I mean, you have, but you’re still around.”

“It is complicated.”

“Can you explain it?”

“Let Rome.”

Prussia grumbled, impatience wearing on him. God Damnit.

They found a shaded cafe table and sat. Germania looked at Rome. “Tell them. About us.”

“Are they ready for that?”

“Not sat. Disappearing.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh! Okay!”

They waited as Rome put on his serious face.

“Baby sister, I’m told you have fears of disappearing.”

Pope looked down at her lap. “I do.” she said softly. “After Wicca...After what I did to Wicca…”

Rome and Germania exchanged looks. The latter gave a nod.

Rome reached out and took Pope’s hand. “Brennan is alive.”

Pope’s head snapped up. “How!?”

He smiled. “He is...a little different. But it is because he had someone to remember him.”

“Who?”

“Asatru.”

Pope blinked. Prussia whistled. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Who else? Who else is alive?”

“Ancient Greece and Ancient Egypt.”

Pope sighed. “I didn’t know them.”

“I know. You were so little when they left.”

“How do they do it?” Prussia asked. “How do they stay for so long and not disappear?”

Rome smiled and sat back. “They have each other. Disappearing isnt leaving tha world forever if you have someone to guide you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Love is no small thing.” Germania said quietly. “Courage and loyalty binds soldiers, love binds families and lovers.”

“Well said.” Rome nodded sagely, patting his friend on the back.

Pope huffed a sigh. “I suppose you’re right...I just...I’m so afraid…”

Prussia wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “We’ll fight it. Together, like we always have.”

Pope looked up at him, her eyes warm. “Okay. Together.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Germany stared. His brother and Pope had been parked on his bed in front of the tv for a solid week.

Watching Star Trek, of all things.

There wasn’t anything wrong with it, more the fact that they had binged a week straight on it, literally doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and watching movies and season episodes.

Germany had a little bit of a problem with people wasting time.

“Oi!” He grumbled from the doorway, when the knock hadn’t gotten their attention. “Why are you spending all of your time sitting around when sere is work to be done?”

They looked up at him. Prussia grinned. “Weeeeeeeeeest! Untwist your panties. We’re on the latest movie. Ergo, se end.”

Pope nodded, her neck a little loose from not enough sleep. “Ya, loosen up, Ludwig. It’s not like I had anything important ta do anyway.”

“Like your job?”

“Exactly.”

Germany sighed. “You two are a disgrace…”

Prussia grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl and threw it at his brother.

Instead of just a useless hail of popcorn, Germany was bopped in the nose with something round and fluffy. The bird dropped to the floor, flapping his tiny wings to cushion his fall.

Germany stared.

The bird grunted at him.

Prussia blinked. “What?”

Germany pointed. “You threw your bird at me.”

“I have a bird?”

“It sits on your head all the time.”

“Since when?”

Germany narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never noticed it?”

“Nope.”

“It’s been with you as long as I can remember.”

“Weird.”

Pope giggled and got up, scooping up the chick, cradling it to her chest. It snuggled against her as she sat back down. “Awwww, Gilbird. So cute.”

“Please don’t tell me it has a name.” Prussia sighed.

Pope grinned at him. “Everyone calls him Gilbird.”

“Gilbert?”

“Gilbird.”

He laughed.

“I can’t believe you never noticed him. He goes with you everywhere.”

“I guess I don’t really pay attention.”

Germany snorted. His brother was the most observant person on the planet, and yet he missed this. He left them to finish their movie.

Lazy people irked him. He needed to go do something productive.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

“Gilbert, I can’t see where I’m going!” Pope laughed, pushed forwards with a hand over her eyes.

“It’s just a little further. Not far. C’mon, Can’t I have my secrets?” Prussia teased.

Pope heard a door open and was pushed forward a few steps. She felt the hand draw away and opened her eyes. Whatever she was expecting, this wasn’t it.

From the door, light was cast upon neat shelves of books, all in orderly rows from ceiling to floor. At first glance they were black, but a closer inspection revealed the bindings to be a deep blue. They weren’t even dusty, as one might expect, but spotless. The smell was invasive, like an ancient library that was rarely disturbed for more than a dusting.

Pope breathed in deep, and reached for the first book that came to her fingertips. Her hand was grabbed, gently, but firmly. She turned, giving Prussia a questioning look.

“Start at se beginning.”

He took down a book for her, from a top shelf. The binding was old and frayed, the back warped and broken, as if it had been caught in the rain at least once. The pages weren’t in better shape, the ink smudged in places, but it was legible, the writing that of a child’s centuries ago.

Pope took a deep breath in surprise. ”These are your diaries.”

Prussia nodded.

“Why are you showing me these?”

“I want you to read sem.” Prussia said softly.

She looked up at him, and saw how much of a mess he was. He was laying himself bare for her. Centuries of thoughts, feelings, wishes, and history...all at her fingertips.

She smiled. “Of course. I’ll read them.”

“Just don’t take sem anywhere.” He nodded slowly. “I don’t…”

Pope nodded and sat right there on the floor. She patted the hardwood next to her. “Sit with me?”

He sat, holding her and petting her hair as she read through his life.

________________________________________________________________________________

 

It took Pope two months to read every diary, between work, and not being allowed to remove the books. It wasn’t until she had finished every single one and was at home, alone, and in bed, did she let herself cry.

Crying for all the pain he had suffered through.

And how much of it had been her fault.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many things weighed heavily on Germany’s mind. He tended to overthink things.

Today it was his connection to the Holy Roman Empire.

He didn’t mind it, really. Holy Rome was strong and feisty, bold and courageous. He may have been a bit of a bully...But what empire wasn’t back in those times? France and Austria sure had mellowed out. Hell, so had his brother, to an extent. He could be really harsh, sometimes.

But, what he didn’t really get, was how he was the old Holy Roman Empire. Prussia had told him that he had been formed by the joining of all his brother’s traits...And what Pope said had contradicted that…

He should ask.

It was just him and Prussia this morning at breakfast, Austria and Hungary each at home or at meetings, respectively. His brother was in an okay mood, as opposed to the last couple of months, where he had been a bit down when he wasn’t actively talking to someone or hiding in his shed.

“Bruder? Can I ask you something?”

“Of se awesome me? Of course.”

Germany rolled his eyes. “This is important.”

“Of course it is. You are perpetually serious, West.”

“Remember when you said I was formed by the joining of many German states?”

Prussia narrowed his eyes suspiciously, teeth halfway through a bite of toast. He chewed and set the rest down, staring at him seriously until he swallowed.

“Why?”

“How does that connect me to Holy Rome?”

Prussia sighed. “Okay...What do you know about what happens when a nation dies?”

Germany blinked. “Not...much…”

“We have bodies, right? That body has to go somewhere. Because of our regenerative constitution, we would not do well if buried like normal humans.” Prussia took a drink of his coffee, thoughtful. “Elisabetta told you that Holy Rome became se Confederation of Rhine, correct?”

Germany nodded. “Historically, that is correct, se empire became a satelite of France. But what--”

“Wis us, it is a little different. We become vassals. Land, land can be drawn over with lines, and it is unfeeling. But people...or whatever we are--cannot be changed so easily. Se literally cut away a piece of you, took a majority of your memories to change you without your will. Now, se reason you are who you are now, is because of what I did. We all agreed, our brothers, that it was unacceptable that you were in such a state. Listless, uncaring, “Yes sir, no sir”. You had no spark.” Prussia took a deep breath. “Lets just say that, it’s complicated to explain. They dissolved as individual states and gave you all theyre desirable traits.”

“That….That makes no sense.”

“I was afraid you might say that. But it’s se truth.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

They looked up to see Italy in the doorway. Prussia grinned and kicked one of the chairs away from the table. “Nope. Sit. Maybe you can make West see sense.”

“What are you talking about?” Italy asked, curious as he sat.

“Holy Roman Empire.”

Italy’s face fell. “Oi. Mi manca tanto.”

“I know.” Prussia said empathetically, ignoring Germany’s shocked face. “I know what he was to you.”

“What he was going to be.” Italy corrected morosely.

“What was he?” Germany asked softly, his gut twisting uncomfortably.

Italy looked at him sadly. “Lo amavo.”

Germany drew a sharp breath, and bit his tongue from saying something stupid.

“I don’t know if you remember what exactly happened to him, Feliciano.” Prussia said gently. “What do you know?”

Italy sniffed. “I just remember him leaving one day...and he never came back...Roderich and Elizabeta told me what happened…” He shook his head hard. “I don’t wanna think about it.”

Prussia sighed. “That’s your prerogative, Feliciano chan.” he reached out and touched the younger country’s soft hair, petting it gently. “But maybe you need to know what really happened, if Pope never told you, because that stupid aristocrat doesn’t know shit.”

Italy nodded.

So, Prussia told him the whole story, from beginning to end, in grisly detail.

In the end, Prussia laid a hand on Italy’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “He’s right here, kid. He never left. Just...he’s just a little different. He doesn’t remember anything. But he’s here. He’s alive.”

Italy had his face in his hands, sobbing like the world was ending.

And all Germany could do was stare, and wonder why this hurt just so much.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

After Italy calmed down some, Prussia left, saying they needed to “sort things out.”

Germany wanted to. He just didn’t know what.

He couldn’t remember.

Italy sat there, hands curled around the cup of coffee Prussia had poured for him before he left, since he was getting his own. It was strong and sweet, and black as boot polish.

Germany wasn’t sure that his brother knew that Italy liked cream in his coffee. He also wasn’t sure that Italy cared right now.

“You really don’t remember anything?” Italy asked softly.

Germany shook his head. “No. Nothing. I have these...dreams...sometimes...But theyre never coherent. They feel so real, and yet they never make any sense.”

“Holy Rome...he bullied me…” Italy said softly. “He al-aways wanted me ta come over ta his place. He fought with Francis over me. But...in his house...he was al-aways shy and flustered.” he laughed, covering his face with his hand. “Did I tell you they al-aways thought I was a girl? Elizaveta dressed me in-a cute dresses…”

Something tickled in the back of Germany’s mind. A little girl with a broom, singing. As soon as he tried to grasp at the image, it fell apart, the whisper of a song echoing like a ghost in the cavity of the space she left.

“No. You never told me that.”

“Well, its-a true. It wasn’t until my voice dropped one day that they realized.”

Germany chuckled. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

Italy shrugged. “The dresses were comfortable.”

Germany laughed.

That was just so like him, he couldn’t help it.

“Im sorry.” Germany said, serious again. “I’m sorry I can’t be him.”

Italy traced a finger on the spotless tabletop, not meeting Germany’s eyes. “It’s fine. You can’t help it.” He looked up, finally, with a sad smile. “I wouldn’t want it any different.”

Germany blinked. “Why not?”

Italy’s smile brightened. “Well, you might not be my friend now, if you hadn’t gone away before!”

Germany smiled. He would focus on that.

He looked down when Blitzer put his snoot on his thigh, big brown eyes calm. Germany petted him, and saw all three of his dogs were in here, clustered around him. He chuckled as Italy flung himself on Aster, scratching the dog frantically and wiggling almost as much as the pup. Blackie barked and put his paws up on the chair’s armrest, bringing himself level with Germany’s face so he could lick him thoroughly, making him laugh.

Dogs were awesome.

___________________________________________________________________________

“So that’s what happened.”

Pope giggled. “So, tha dogs?”

“Also my idea.”

“An awesome idea.”

“I know. It came from me.”

Pope laughed and looked up. She and Prussia were sprawled out on his back lawn, under a clear sky on a sunny day. It was warm for summer, but the breeze cut the heat beautifully.

“I’m glad they know.” Pope said softly. “I never knew…”

“About Feliciano?” Prussia prodded. “How come?”

“He never said anything. I thought they were friends. I didn’t know how much he felt…” Pope sighed. “He was so upset…”

“I know. But you cannot change se past.”

“Don’t we all know it.”

Prussia reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “They’ll be fine. They are big and strong now.”

“Im proud of them.” Pope said softly. “Both of them. I really am.”

“I feel se same way.”

“They will be fine.” Pope said softly. “If we disappear, won’t they?”

“They will.” Prussia murmured. “But why do you keep talking like that? You always have been…”

“Not always...but…” Pope took a deep breath. “What we did to Wicca...It was all my fault he’s gone.”

“Großvater said that he is still alive.”

“How does he know that?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did, if only to assuage you silly fears.” Prussia sighed. “You are one of se most popular religions in se vorld. You won’t disappear. If anyone disappears, it will be me.”

“I don’t want you to disappear, Gilbert. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know either. But, remember what Großvater said? As long as there is someone to love you, you cannot disappear. As long as you love me, I won’t ever leave.”

Pope rolled over, wrapping her arm around his waist and burying her face in his side. He wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her back. His other hand came up and stroked her hair.

“Ti amo tanto.” she whispered fiercely. “Non potrò mai smettere d’amarti.”

Prussia blinked, and must have had dust caught in his eyes, because they watered up. “Being alone is better.” he said softly. “But being alone with you is best.”


End file.
